In the Quartermaster's Store
by HoVis
Summary: A tale of romance, kidnap, torture, confusion, and uniform cleaning. All these things combine to create quite a stir for one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed! Please read and review. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter I: In the Quartermaster's Store

**A/N:** Hello all! After a brief (cough) hiatus in a few other fandoms, I'm back! This little story has been rattling around my head since goodness knows when, though it is a bit different stylistically from my other stories (mainly because I haven't posted here for a while, apart from my joint fic with volley – check it out via my profile!).

"**The Little People":** One brief explanation. I was adding it up a few days ago (from my own estimates: I'm not sad enough to actually count the number of people in engineering in one episode) and came up with the following figures for the crew of _Enterprise_:

Command Team: 6

Engineering Crew: 15 (at most)

Armoury Team: 6

Medical Staff (incl. Phlox): 4? He must have _some_ help, after all.

Lab Technicians (though we have never seen them, they must exist!): 5

Even multiplying the above by two for the night shift that still leaves ten or so crewmen unaccounted for... the lackeys, the people who do the _real_ work. Which is who this story is all about. Sort of. Of course, we can't leave out our officers...! Half of this story is made up of original characters with very unoriginal names, but I hope I don't bore you too much. The story is set shortly after Terra Prime, since that is the last episode I have seen in recent memory, and Trip is alive and will stay that way!

I will try and update at least once a week! (ducks as readers of previous stories glare in disbelief)

**Disclaimer:** I don't even want to remember the fiasco of the last season, let alone try and claim I own the rights to it.

**Chapter One**

**In the Quartermaster's Store**

"They don't appreciate us." It was a frequent moan, taken up between the buzz of the sewing machines and the hiss of the welder.

"No." There was a rustle of clothing as civvies and uniforms were separated.

"I mean, they just take us for granted, don't they?" The _whoosh_ of the detergent being poured into the machine.

"Yes." A large, heavy section of spare raw metal fell to the ground. Someone swore.

"All up there in their – manners, Billy! – _command_ uniforms, never remembering the little people..." The offending crewmember mumbled an apology and retreated, red-faced, into the central workshop.

"Hmm." There was a clunk as the clumsy crewman managed to get the sheet of metal stuck in the door.

"Never a word of thanks, though we clean their uniforms, scrub their boots – bloody fix their uniforms, look at this! How many times is it actually possible for a man to rip his uniform? Bloodstains, too..." One of the sewing machines paused in its buzzing and a peal of laughter could be heard from a third voice.

"I win!"

"What?"

"The bet... that's the fiftieth time."

The happily complaining, motherly voice swore. Her single-syllable sympathiser gave a snort of laughter.

"_Manners_, Miranda. Sorry – _manners_, sir."

"Sir, what you calling me 'sir' for? What's the point of formality when we're all on the bottom rung?"

"Not quite the bottom." A fourth voice intoned darkly. "At least we don't maintenance the... plumbing."

There was a good-natured peal of laughter from all concerned, and then the room was filled once again with the sounds of work. Then, thoughtfully, the bet-winner mused;

"Remind me to thank Lieutenant Reed when I see him next. _Fifty_ times!"

There was a long pause as the four workers reflected that, even if they were ignored, put upon and taken for granted, at least _they_ hadn't received managed to ruin their uniform fifty separate times. Then;

"Oh, damn it, I need a better formula to get out bloodstains. Good job his piping's red... you know, they don't appreciate us..."

The cycle started again.

888

By rights, Malcolm Reed's ears should have been burning. Unfortunately, too much else was burning for him to really notice.

"For god's sake, man, watch where you're sticking that damned amoeba!"

Trip, standing beside him (apparently sympathetically, though Malcolm had his doubts), gave a snort of laughter, and Phlox shot him a quelling look before almost rubbing his hands with glee as he retrieved _yet another_ disgusting-looking creature from its tank. Malcolm groaned. Once again, the good doctor shot him a somewhat hurt glance.

"Lieutenant, in case you haven't noticed, your wounds have become infected. These creatures will get your fever down faster than any hypospray I can administer. Now – if you would just _sit_._ Still_."

Malcolm lay back on the bed, admitting defeat. A couple of scratches, that was all. But of course, if _anyone_ was going to catch a damned illness which the initial bioscans couldn't detect, it would be him -

"Feeling a little sorry for yourself, Loo-tenant?" Trip was grinning. He had, it seemed, picked up on Malcolm's self-pitying vibes. "Got somethin' might cheer you up. Quartermasters' sent this down with your uniform." And he put, incongruously, a piece of _paper_ in front of Malcolm's eyes. He squinted to read it, wondering where they had procured a pen, for one thing.

"_Fifty times. Many thanks, Crewman Manning._" He read out, then looked up at Trip in perplexion. "What?" Much to his annoyance, his friend merely shrugged, his eyes glittering with what Malcolm knew was suppressed laughter.

"I can't be sure, but... I reckon it might have something to do with the number of times they've had to fix yer uniform after a... accident."

"Oh." Phlox's pets seemed to be doing the trick; his fever was abating and his head was becoming heavy. "Excuse me, Commander, I think I might -" the rest of his sentence was cut off by a yawn, and he vaguely saw Trip smile and turn to leave.

"G'night..." as he exited the sickbay, Malcolm heard him chuckle; "Fifty times...!"

As he finally drifted off into an entirely critter-free sleep, Malcolm Reed couldn't help but think _is that all?_

888

The seven crewmembers who made up the Quartermaster's Department on _Enterprise_ had been onboard the ship since its inaugural mission, and were, as Quartermaster (she was officially a Crewman, but since she was the ostensible leader of the 'ragged band' as she called them, she preferred to be called by the more old-fashioned title) Miranda Heron did not cease to remind them, more or less ignored by every member of the crew of a rank higher than Ensign. It wasn't a deliberate ignorance, but the Store was down on E-deck, along with the secondary cargo bays, and very few of the command crew actually ventured there. They simply took it as a given that they would put their dirty uniforms in one slot in the morning and that they would appear, cleaned and ironed by their doors, next time they came off-duty.

The Quartermaster's team was split into two groups; the textiles and the resistants. The textiles team dealt with uniforms, bedding and frequently the cleaning of all crew quarters. (Ironically, they as the lowest-ranking members of the eighty-strong crew had unlimited access to every crew-cabin on the ship). The 'resistants' handled anything involving resistant materials – the supply of dishes and cutlery to the galley, the creation of new sections of bulkhead to be taken anonymously to the Engineering Supplies Store, even the repair of phase pistol casings all fell to the three frequently begrimed members of the metals workshop. Different members of the team as a whole also specialised in more detailed repair work, for example the checking and fixing of communicators, PADDs and, somewhat bizarrely, the twice-a-year rejuvenating of the captain's water polo ball. The latter usually fell to Crewman 'Henny' Mackie (her full name, which she had long ago given up trying to forget, was Henrietta, and most people called her by her last name anyway), to whom also fell the duty of placating Miranda when she was on a rant with a few well-placed 'hmms' and 'ahs'.

"You know," Mackie said, in between sponging the cuffs of Commander Tucker's uniform (it was the 22nd century and they _still_ hadn't made the advance of finding any better cleaner for grease _than_ elbow grease), "I think we should start pinning messages to certain officer's uniforms when we send them back. Like 'can you stop crawling around in dirty conduits' for Tucker, or, 'do you know how hard red lipstick is to wash out of a blue collar' for Mayweather." Mayweather had never, for the record, returned a uniform with lipstick on it (save for that one time during the Terra Prime incident, but no one had been acting their best then, and that had been his civvies), though at one point there had been a suspicious amount of oil – similar to that on Tucker's uniform – marring Commander T'Pol's enviably slim uniform.

There was a collective burst of laughter in the room, though the only man present, Crewman Henson, remained sullen and silent. Then again, he was _always_ sullen and silent.

"Like we did for Reed, you mean," the youthful, far-too-lucky-for-her-own-good Maire Manning commented with a wry smile. "You know, I got a reply from that one." The others looked up and, seeing she had their obedient attention, Manning continued; "It said 'glad I could be of service. Looking forward to the next fifty. Reed.'" She shook her head. "He's an odd one, that Lieutenant Reed."

"They're all odd ones!" Miranda Heron exclaimed, throwing one care-worn, somewhat podgy hand in the air whilst the other hand continued, undaunted, to handle the sewing machine. "They're command, aren't they? I mean, look at the way Tucker hounded after that T'Pol -" a crash from the neighbouring workshop brought her enthusiastic discourse to an end, and Crewman Billy Cortan poked his head round the door, looking bashful.

"Sorry!" He exclaimed, before retreating back into the workshop, from which an angry, shouting voice drifted;

_"Sorry! Shouldn't you be apologising to me? Or to Commander Tucker, whose spare parts you're ruining?"_

The three women in the textiles room exchanged amused glances, whilst Henson kept his eyes, unsurprisingly, down. The owner of the gruff, roaring voice was Crewman Tiller, a tall, grizzled man who had allegedly 'slaved in a workshop since before you were born' and enjoyed pretending he had more communication with the ranking officers than he actually did. As the shouting abated the third member of the resistants team, her red hair coated in a pale covering of grey dust, poked her head through the door and gave a grin.

"Y'alright?" She asked, cheerily. Three voices answered her, whilst Henson nodded, glanced up at her nervously, then looked back at his work, his pale face flushed. Henny shrugged and shot Jill Derner a sympathetic look.

"So-so. What did Billy do?"

"Dropped a section of plating. _Again_." Her eyes flickered to Henson, before glancing back into the workshop. "Ah well – no rest for the wicked!" And, with a flick of red hair, she was gone, leaving the textiles 'shop in relative silence. Henny turned to Annan Henson and sighed.

"You know, Annan, you really should -"

"Don't." The quiet crewman did not look from his work, but Henny – reluctantly – got the message. She didn't.

After all, they might have room and time up on the bridge to get involved in dramas both onboard ship and off, but down in the store it was cramped, and they had a lot of work to get through. Arguments – especially Henson's kind of arguments, quiet and stormily brewing – were, they had long since learned, far from helpful in their line of work.

After a long minute of work and no speaking, Manning looked up with mischief in her eyes.

"You know, I'm starting to think we might be under-appreciated..."

Quartermaster Heron opened her mouth, and Mackie gave a sigh. One of these days, she thought, if only to stop Miranda's daily moans, she would have to do something to remind the officers on the bridge who did all their dirty washing for them.

888

**A/N:** So? What did you think? Just press the blue button!


	2. Chapter II: An Unusual Assignment

**A/N:** Wow, I'm certainly impressed by the reception this has received! I remember now why I never finish a story before posting it – because everyone's reviews give me so many ideas! So, if I steal any of your ideas, please forgive me, since it was done in the best of faith!

To my reviewers...

**sclittle:** Thanks. A Captain Archer fan, then? Don't worry, he will feature... but not just yet!

**Sita Z:** Oh, great idea about Trip's quarters! I hope chapter two lives up to expectations!

**Begoogled:** I'm getting the impression that the six characters I created as 'background' are becoming quite popular! I had originally intended to focus on Henny but, well, let's just say that the plot-bunnies have been nibbling... thanks for your review! (And is that a Les Mis fan I spy?)

**volley:** Look! It's less than a week! And yes, Henson has... issues. I'm looking forward to untying them!

**Verity Kindle:** Thanks loads! I really hope you enjoy the following.

**LadyRainbow:** Well, I didn't want to seem like I enjoyed harming Malcolm too much... cough... thanks for your review!

**Jedi Takeru:** Wow... thanks! I hope I live up to it!

Now... on with chapter two!

**Disclaimer:** All kudos to Gene Rodenberry, and all monies to Paramount.

**Chapter Two**

**An Unusual Assignment**

Some days after reaching what the workers in the Quartermaster's store dubbed his 'anniversary', Lieutenant Malcolm Reed made a quite unprecedented appearance in that very bay of the ship. He looked awkward – then again, as Quartermaster Heron had once reflected, albeit somewhat unfairly, the only time he _didn't_ look awkward was when he was handling weaponry, preferably of the explosive kind.

"Ah – good morning." The four looked up at the unfamiliar voice, and three of the four turned a little red. There was very little that _hadn't_ been discussed in the last five years between the four of them, after all. And on a starship, as far as the 'little people' were concerned, the officers were practically celebrities – and often the juiciest source of gossip. Many hours had been spent trying to unravel the well-known enigma that was Lieutenant Reed, though Annan Henson had quite pointedly kept silent throughout such hours.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. What can we do for you?" Even Miranda Heron's best professional nod could not quite hide what her three colleagues knew was burning curiosity. Heron was many things – a gossip, a taskmaster, and a frequent producer of inaccurate and exaggerated announcements – but subtle was not one of them. Lieutenant Reed seemed to be aware of this, too (for the first time the four crewmen wondered if _they_ ever gossiped about _them_), for he held out a metal case with a somewhat chagrined smile.

"I don't suppose you lot have got any spare charge packs, have you? We're down to our last thirty."

Miranda – along with her 'second-in-command', Henny – rolled her eyes. "You lot" and "thirty" were the main sources of amusement in Reed's request, though the abashed tone with which he uttered it was also cause for a slight giggle. _Afterwards_.

"Thirty, Lieutenant?" Charge packs, phase coils, power cells – call them what you will, they powered phase pistols and were, in most circumstances, practically indestructible and with a working life of ten years. _Enterprise_ had started her first mission with two hundred. Once again, the armoury officer gave a lopsided grin, though he still stood in the doorway, as though unsure of his place inside.

"Sooner safe than sorry." His tone was quite serious, and Henny, with a wordless glance at Miranda, rose and took the case. She opened it, and frowned at the four blackened packs within.

"You didn't expect us to have spares." She stated, tapping her finger against one of the packs. Whilst it was blackened, there was no actual scarring to the outer surface of the pack, which boded well. Only drained, then. She would have to re-wire the circuits, then hook them up to the –

"Crewman?" At the curt, if not entirely unkind remonstration, Henny looked up, well aware that her cheeks were reddening slightly. She realised she had never seen the Lieutenant close up before. She had seen the Captain, and Commander Tucker, of course (the man never wasted an opportunity to flash a grin at the three women in the store, though the smile had become more strained of late), but it was common knowledge that Reed had enough trouble easing up around his superiors, let alone his _in_feriors. No-one would ever make the mistake of labelling him the social butterfly of the ship.

"Sorry," Henny said at last, casting her gaze back down to the charge packs. "I'll have to do some fiddling. I can have them back to you by tomorrow morning, if you like." She didn't add that she would have to work late into the night to do so. It was not, after all, her place to complain at extra work – everyone on _Enterprise_ took on more work than they needed to, which was precisely why they were on her. Better to be a humble crewman on the flagship than the commanding officer of a two-deck shuttle.

"Fiddling?" Reed repeated, looking somewhat alarmed, and Henny's lips quirked.

"Would _adjustments_ be a better term, Lieutenant?" She asked, and watched with interest as Reed paused and, as though realising his own foolishness, shook his head with a brief smile.

"Much better – sorry." He turned on his heel, smartly, and Henny wondered how it was that five years onboard hadn't quite managed to take the shine off his professional glossing. "Tomorrow morning. Excuse me."

The members of the quartermaster's team waited until his footsteps died away before bursting into a fit of giggles. Even Annan deigned to give a slim smile.

"He's an odd one." Heron said, repeating sentiments she had, at one point or another, expressed about each and every member of the bridge crew. In Reed's case, however, it was probably true.

888

Billy Cortan had the rather dubious honour of sharing a bunk with Crewman Annan Henson, notorious both for the pallor of his skin and the dearth of his conversation. That night, Billy was lying on the top bunk writing a letter home to his parents whilst Annan sat in front of the portal and gazed at the stars flickering past, when the latter broke his own norms and started a conversation.

"Henny and Lieutenant Reed would make a good couple."

Billy looked up in astonishment, all thoughts of asking for his mother's apple crumble recipe vanishing from his mind as he considered the idea of the straight-laced Reed in a relationship with any woman onboard, let alone Henrietta Mackie.

"You're daft, Annan." He gave a shaky laugh. "What makes you say that?"

Annan twisted his neck upwards so that they were looking eye to eye.

"She's the right height for him." His expression was quite sombre but then Billy saw what he prided himself on being the only person capable of seeing, and that was the tiniest quirk at the edge of Annan's thin lips. Billy burst out laughing.

"You're a prat, Annan." He said lightly, leaning back on his pillows. A moment later Annan's voice (it seemed he was in a particularly loquacious mood tonight) floated up to the top bunk once more.

"And you, Billy? When are you going to reveal _your_ romantic intentions? It's someone in our team, I know. The wide-eyed and innocent Miss Manning?"

Billy gripped his PADD hard.

"Try sorting out your own 'romantic intentions' first, Annan, before you try advising _me_." He said shortly, and heard only silence in reply. A few minutes later, Annan rose from his chair and subsided into his bunk.

The only word Billy heard from him until the next morning was "lights".

888

They were entering a solar system that promised to be inhabited, and as far as most of the crew was concerned it was not a moment too soon. For one Lieutenant Reed, however, all he could think upon hearing the news was _here comes number fifty-one_.

It was ridiculous, really, that a blithe comment of a crewman he had only seen two or three times and spoken to but once (when he had gone to recover a... certain shirt) should give him such food for thought. His actual _responding_ to her comment, too... either he was loosening up in a _good_ way, as Trip would tell him, or he was becoming unforgivably unprofessional. Either way, at this exact moment in time, with the possible threat of alien spaceships looming (as far as Malcolm was concerned, _any_ other spaceship, regardless of size or class, should be considered a threat until – well, until it was out of weapons' range), he had more important things to consider. Such as ensuring that the damn phase cannons and torpedo launchers were correctly aligned. Which they seemed to delight in not being.

"Uh – Lieutenant?" At the unexpected voice (his reputation as a workaholic was not an unfounded one – he was in at 0400 hours) he spun, his hands coming up unconsciously. The nervous-looking crewman (Mackel? Damn it, he had more to remember than a crewman's name) stepped back, and he felt a ruddy glow creep up his cheeks.

"Sorry," he inclined his head. "I wasn't expecting you this early." He was also, he knew well, wound up and on edge from too little sleep. Then he looked closer at the crewman, and saw from the black smudges under her eyes that _she_ probably was, too. He frowned. "Did you work through the night, Crewman?"

Tired as he was, he didn't miss her hesitation, but then she seemed to realise the folly of trying to lie (after all, his eyes were sharp enough to catch the glint of a weapon at forty paces, let alone a paltry lie), and nodded with a smile.

"I know how much you... I mean, it's common knowledge that you like to have everything ready well before going on an away mission to a new planet." She shrugged. "And anyway... I think we all worry about..." she trailed off, then passed a hand over her eyes. "Sorry, Lieutenant. I'm not..."

Not thinking straight. Tiredness did that to you, which was why it was bad in his line of work. Then again, he had pulled enough late nights, early mornings, and double shifts without sleep to know where his limits lay, and he hadn't hit them yet this time. The crewman in front of him, however...

"Get some sleep, Crewman. Take the morning off." He said firmly, taking the box from her unresisting hands. "That's an _order_." He saw that her eyes were bleary with lack of sleep, and hoped that her work, however early it had been completed, hadn't suffered because of it.

"Yes sir."

He watched her leave, his lips pursed, before turning to a work surface and opening the small metal box. He needn't, it seemed, to have worried. The work, though rudimentary – style was a luxury on a starship, anyway – was neat, and entirely correct. Perhaps he ought to try and learn her name.

888

**A/N:** Well, you know the drill. Please review!


	3. Chapter III: Planet Bound

**A/N:** Yes, yes, I know it's been more than a week... sorry! But it least it hasn't taken _too_ long for me to update. I'm trying to keep three chapters ahead so that I have at least a bit of leeway to fall back on if needs be!

A few responses to my reviewers, as always:

**General Kunama:** Lol, I could hardly write a fic that _didn't_ include Malcolm! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

**Verity Kindle:** I wouldn't call Henny a weapons freak, but she is good at the technical stuff every now and then. And as for love being in the air... well, you'll have to wait and find out! Thanks for reviewing.

**volley:** Well, Annan has a lot of issues, as we're going to find out in the next couple of chapters. And, well, the story is in the 'romance' section so hopefully there'll be a bit of fluffiness going on soon! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Lady Rainbow:** Wow, everyone's interested in Trip's quarters! Don't worry, they're coming up soon! Thanks for your review, enjoy chapter three!

**Sita Z:** Well, I can't give too much away, but an away mission just wouldn't be complete if it didn't involve an injured Malcolm, would it? Glad you're enjoying the story (love your Drown Malcolm fic btw), and thanks for reviewing!

**Begoogled:** Don't worry, I find instantaneous Romeo-and-Juliet love affairs a bit of a turn-off myself, so _if_ a romance should happen it is likely to be a tentative one! Glad to meet a fellow Les Mis fan – I've seen it three times and it gets better and better lol!

**burrcat213:** Lol, well, we can't put Malcolm through too much pain! Thanks for your review, I hope you enjoy chapter three!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Enterprise and am not (though a certain Miss Robin Hobbs – grr – would claim otherwise) trying to make any claim on the copyright. I'm just having fun, and hopefully everyone reading is too! Now, on with the fic...

**Chapter Three**

**Planet-Bound**

When Henny returned to the store in the afternoon, she was surprised to receive a sharp greeting from Heron.

"Where were you?"

Henny frowned, surprised not only at her friend and superior's tone, but also at the fact that the machines were, for once, quite still.

"Sleeping. I was ordered to, after I worked through the night with that batch for Reed, I did warn you... what's going on?" She glanced at Annan Henson, but he simply stared back at her, his face inscrutable. Jill Derner was in the textiles room, too, her face taut with excitement. Heron surveyed Henny for a moment, as though assessing her, before saying gruffly:

"We're going on an away mission. You, me, Jill and Tiller. The captain's made contact with the planet, and they've agreed to let us have a look for some raw supplies."

Crewman Henny Mackie felt a thrill run through her entire body. Was this what the command crew felt every time they planned to go planet-side? Stepping foot on an alien planet. She had joined Starfleet for this.

"Contact? But I thought they were pre-warp?"

Heron nodded, and Henny noticed that her leg was jiggling with nerves – or excitement. Heron noticed it too, and coughed in embarrassment. Henny didn't blame her for being less than professional, though, given the circumstances.

"They are, but they've already made contact with several alien species, made first contact about fifty years ago -" Heron glanced at her chronometer and took a deep breath in. "We have an hour till we need to meet on the transporter pad."

Henny felt her trembling excitement still and turn cold.

"The transporter?" She asked, well aware that her voice had risen a semitone. "Why can't we take the shuttlepod?"

"Because," a gruff voice from behind her answered, "we're heading to an agricultural area which is protected by their laws." He snorted. "Namby-pambies don't want us polluting their area of fine agriculture. Not scared, are you?"

Henny turned, her eyebrow raised, to Tiller, but smiled when she saw that he was as pale as she must be under his dark beard.

"Only as much as you are, Ryan." She said blithely, and was rewarded by a stern cough which, she knew, hid a great deal of fondness. He and Heron, both in their early forties and old hands on spaceships, had taken the five younger crewmen of the store under their wing, Henny as the youngest even more so. Though he would deny it were he ever asked, Ryan Tiller even had a soft spot for the hapless Billy Cortan – though that particular soft spot was _very_ well veiled. Henny glanced at Billy, Manning and Henson, who were all in the room, fearing they would be envious of the only opportunity any in the group had ever been given to go on an away mission, but whilst there was a slight amiable envy in all of their looks' there was also a resounding sense of excitement for their colleagues. Henson in fact looked somewhat relieved, though Henny had the sneaking suspicion that this was due to the fact that Jill Derner was on the away mission and he was not.

"So much to do!" Heron flapped her hands, her expression somewhat lost, before taking a deep breath in and rallying her professionalism. "Jill, you go down and ask Chef what kind of food supplies he needs. Tiller, I need a list of the raw materials Engineering will be wanting... I'll check what we have to barter... Henny, you check the textiles situation and meet us at the transporter pad in half an hour!"

And with that, Crewman Heron dashed from the store, Tiller at her heels, her expression one of great anxiety and excitement. Jill Derner hung back, her gaze on Annan.

"Wish me luck?" She said, her tone low. Henson looked up, his lips parting slightly.

"I -"

"Good luck," Billy Cortan jumped in, throwing an angry and envious glance at Henson. Jill shot him a wavering smile and left the room. Manning, Billy and Henny all stared at Annan, who was studiously working at a stain on a uniform. The uniform was Phlox's, and the stain was an odd greenish colour; on second thoughts, Henny decided she didn't really want to know what it was. Anyway, there were more important things to discuss, and even checking the supplies of cotton and wool wasn't at the top of the list. Manning was the first to speak, her voice tinged with exasperation.

"For goodness sake, Annan -"

"Don't." He said, firmly. It seemed to be all they heard from him, these days. Looking at their stubborn expressions he sighed and threw down the uniform. "Whatever has happened between -" he stopped abruptly, picked up the uniform, and began scrubbing with an increased fervour. Catherine shot Henny an exasperated look, whilst Billy, his cheeks slightly red, nodded to the two women and retreated into the workshop.

Henny gave a sigh, before remembering that she now had less than twenty minutes to prepare for her very first away mission. Her hands feeling slightly unsteady, she retreated into the supplies cupboard with a PADD to check what they would need.

888

The store was quiet as Mackie left, its only remaining occupants the unspeaking Henson, the thoughtful-looking Catherine, and the accident-prone Billy. Occasionally, Billy would drop something in the workshop with a crash, and both Henson and Catherine would look up, though Henson's expression was far less charitable than that of his female counterpart. On what seemed like the twentieth crash to emanate from the adjoining room in but a few minutes, the pale-faced man muttered darkly;

"Imagine sharing a quarters with him."

Catherine paused in her stitching and frowned.

"You _do_."

"Exactly."

As she shook her head and returned to her methodical repairs, Billy crept into the room, looking shame-faced.

"Do you mind if I join you for a bit? There's not a lot I can do on my own..." He trailed off, his ginger hair clashing starkly with his face, its whiteness broken by bright spots on his cheeks. Though Henson's expression was (for Henson) positively unfriendly, Manning patted the seat beside her.

"Go for it. We don't want you hurting yourself, after all." Billy giggled nervously at that, and the room fell into silence once more. They all knew that four members of their team would be walking towards the transporter in but a few minutes. Though none of them gave voice to the thought, they all felt a slight squirm of envy. The first away mission offered to the Quartermaster's Team in four years – and they were left behind. What they had hid behind their smiles earlier – none of them wished to ruin the much-desired experience of their fellows' – the silence now drew out of them. Billy's foot tapped nervously against his chair leg, and his hands, deprived – unlike Henson and Manning's – of anything to do began to fiddle aimlessly. After a few minutes of this, Henson looked up, his expression deadpan.

"Billy, go get your sketchbook. I know you're itching to." At these words, uttered with something of a reluctant air, the young crewman's eyes widened.

"You sure?"

"I won't offer again."

Billy knew when not to miss a chance when it was offered on such an easy plate. He hurried back into the workshop, and Manning chanced a glance at Henson."You know, I'm rather envious that he never draws _me_. Am I not pretty enough?" She gave a mock pout, though she knew full well that she – ash blonde-haired and blue-eyes – was certainly not his _type_. Mahogany and hazel, perhaps (four years ago Cathy would have uncharitably added that it sounded like an advert for a wood furnishing company, but her tastes in men had – thankfully – altered after what was aptly known in the department as the Henson-Derner fiasco), not that he would admit it. However, he played his part well, allowing a rare smile to grace his ascetic features.

"You are quite pretty, Cathy, but I have _fine_ bone structure."

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Waiting beside the transporter platform as though he used it every day, Lieutenant Reed was somewhat surprised to see the look of extreme anxiety on Crewman Mackie's face as she approached, until he recalled his own nerves upon first stepping upon the machine.

"Don't worry," he said, feeling that some encouragement was needed to bring the colour back into her cheeks, "it's perfectly safe." He paused, reassessing the veracity of that statement. "Safer than it used to be, at least." Safe enough, he thought, to be used for situations of diplomacy, rather than just emergency. Mackie gave a nervous laugh. Perhaps his words hadn't been quite encouraging enough.

"I just don't want to come back from my first away mission as a stream of unidentifiable electrons, thanks," she said, before biting her lip. "Sorry. Nerves make me a bit loqua -"

"Lieutenant," it was the Captain, and Reed felt a slight surge of annoyance as Archer's warm smile seemed to calm the nervous Crewman tenfold to what his awkward words had, "Crewman." Mackie flashed the Captain a brief smile, before frowning.

"Sir, may I ask you a question?"

Reed was surprised by her formality, partially because it contrasted with his own. After four years on _Enterprise_, he had come to speak his mind with his Captain. He was unsure if this was a positive development or not.

"Fire away, Miss Mackie."

"I was wondering – why are we stocking up? I thought we were planning to return to Spacedock within the next four months?"

Reed raised an eyebrow. He had been wondering that himself – their mission after the Expanse had been originally planned to be a short one, though knowing the Captain as he did he had never truly expected it to be so. Archer shrugged.

"That's the plan, but plans always change. I wanted to be prepared in case we stay out longer than we were meant to, and since we were given the opportunity by the Clendavins..." He trailed off, smiling slightly. Both Reed and Mackie nodded, though the former had a suspicion that the Captain's decision to load with supplies was based on more than just an instinct. The man was probably already grappling with Starfleet Command over allowing _Enterprise_ to extend her mission.

Three more crewmen, along with a member of Malcolm's team, came round the corner, the latter looking slightly bored and the former all as pale as Crewman Mackie. Archer shot Malcolm a long-suffering look.

"Malcolm. This is a _peaceful_ mission."

"Indeed." The armoury officer responded sceptically, taking one of the phase pistols offered by his Ensign. He glanced at Mackie. "Your work on the charge packs was very good, by the way."

"Oh." She flushed slightly. "Than -"

"I hope you won't make this the fifty-first time, Lieutenant!" The rather matronly woman Reed knew to be the unofficially titled 'Quartermaster' interrupted, giggling slightly. He covered his slight smile with a cough, whilst Archer looked on in bemusement before shaking his head and stepping onto the transporter pad. Reed and Ensign Tremin joined him, but the four crewmen hung back. Archer flashed them a brief smile of encouragement whilst Reed saw Tremin roll his eyes. He himself was torn somewhere between the two. He had experienced a 'first time' too, after all. After a pause, the older crewman stepped up onto the pad with a huffing sound and glared at his fellows, still waiting below.

"Come on, might as well get this over with..." he said, and the three women stepped up onto the pad albeit, Reed noticed, with the greatest reluctance. The red haired crewman shot the ensign at the control pad a nervous glance.

"Are you sure its entirely safe to have so many -"

The words, however, didn't have a chance to fully leave her mouth, for the glimmering light that preceded transport was already surrounding them, and for a single millisecond they knew nothing.

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**A/N:** Now, I'm coming to the realisation that this is quite a "talkie" fic, and it isn't exactly going to be moving at a great pace either. Is this alright? Please read and review!


	4. IV: Of Sheep and Security Officers

**A/N:** Wooh! Chapter Four! Here it is – I'm being good and updating regularly! A few notes to the salt-of-the-earth, my reviewers:

**volley:** Lol, you're too smart for your own good sometimes! And I'm afraid Annan doesn't really feature this chapter – I think you get (some of) the story on him in chapters five and six, though. Thanks for reviewing!

**Verity Kindle:** Good point. Have changed it. Thanks!

**General Kunama:** Lol yes, good old hovis bread... anyway, since I wouldn't want you eating such mass-produced stuff, I'm updating! (Ironically I never eat hovis...) Thanks for reviewing, hope you enjoy the next chappie!

**Sita Z:** Thanks! I'm really glad that you seem to be enjoying this as much as I am!

**Begoogled:** Lol, yes, a bit of action is good, so I hope you like chapter four! R.e. your concern as to keeping tabs on everyone, I have the same problem, so see below...

**_The Quartermaster's Team:_**

For my sanity as much as my readers', I thought I'd better give a list of the seven new characters, their jobs and what is known so far about them!

**Crewman / Quartermaster Miranda Heron:** Works in the textiles half of the store and is the head of the small group. Not officially called 'Quartermaster' but uses the rank to save confusion (and salve her own ego!). An older woman, probably mid-forties.

**Crewman Ryan Tiller:** About the same age as Heron, the grumpy (but slightly paternal) head of the resistant materials side of things.

**Crewman Billy Cortan:** Slightly clumsy member of the 'resistants' team. Ginger-haired, good at sketching. Bunks with Annan Henson.

**Crewman Jill Derner:** The third member (and only woman) of the resistants team, red (but not ginger) haired, has some kind of history with Annan Henson.

**Crewman Annan Henson:** Works in the textiles department. Very quiet, dark-haired and pale-skinned.

**Crewman Catherine Manning:** Blue-eyed and ash-blonde, works in the textiles half and once cherished a soft spot for Annan. Possibly a little bit stereotypically blonde in terms of intelligence.

**Crewman Henrietta "Henny" Mackie:** Youngest member of the team, works in the textiles half. Good at fixing phase pistols, much to Reed's delight...

Well, that should save me a lot of flicking between chapters next time I forget a surname, lol! Hope it helps! Now... on with the fic!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Enterprise or anything affiliated with it, save a few books and a Malcolm doll. Um... I shouldn't admit to that, should I?

**Chapter Four**

**Of Sheep and Security Officers**

" – people on here at one time." Jill Derner blinked as she realised that they were no longer on the transporter pad but on solid, _alien_ ground. Henrietta Mackie let out a shaky breath, whilst Tiller coughed awkwardly and grasped Heron's elbow to stop her knees collapsing with surprise. The captain glanced at them.

"You alright?" He asked. Derner and Mackie nodded, whilst Heron and Tiller looked lost for words. Jill turned slowly on the spot, gazing up at the purple – _purple!_ – sky, and jumped and almost said something unprintable when she clapped eyes on a group of three aliens standing not ten feet away. They had their arms raised straight above their heads, in what Derner assumed was a form of greeting. She watched as the Captain, without a single word, indicated that Reed and the other security officer walk slightly ahead, and then beckoned that the four members of the Quartermaster's team follow. Derner led the way, utterly fascinated despite herself. Henny caught up with her, her eyes sparkling.

"I guess this would be the wrong time to ask about you and Annan, huh?" She said, laughter in her voice.

"Definitely," Jill said, unable to refrain a slight start of astonishment as she spied in the sky a bird not unlike an Earth raven, save for the fact that it was as green as the trees in which it roosted. "Stepping on an alien planet certainly puts things into perspective. Something to tell the grandkids." She paused, thinking of Henson despite herself. "If I ever have any."

They were now but a metre away from the aliens (Clendavins, Jill reminded herself), who slowly lowered their arms. Archer held out his communicator for it to translate his greeting to the aliens.

"I am Captain Archer. We spoke earlier. I would like to thank you for your kind offer of supplies and hospitability. We are eager to repay you in kind." Derner watched the captain carefully, realising that under his stiff and formal words there lay a burning excitement to know more. It seemed that the novelty of stepping on a new planet never lost its appeal, whether it be the first time or the fiftieth. The aliens, too, seemed enthusiastic – though it was difficult to tell with all the tentacles.

"I am Dzerxot." The alien inclined its head. "We welcome you to our planet, and ask for no more repayment than information about your culture." It (Jill couldn't quite tell if it was male or female – or if, she thought, remembering the species with their 'cogenitors', this species actually _had_ male or female) paused, as though weighing its words. "Our species is greatly concerned with the study of society. We feel that by learning of the cultures of those who visit us we can learn almost as much as we could if we had warp travel." It sounded mildly regretful, and Jill noticed Archer's jaw tighten slightly. Was he thinking of the Vulcans, of Earth's attempts to develop – perhaps before their rightful time?

"I hope you are aware that we cannot give you any information about warp development." He said eventually, and the alien blinked its large, round eyes, though not, Jill thought, in anger. She wondered if it was their equivalent of nodding.

"Of course. That would interfere with our society's natural development."

Jill shared a glance with Henny at that, knowing that they both saw the flaw in that argument. Surely meeting _them_ was interfering with the 'natural development' of this species' society? Jill chanced a peek at the Captain, and saw by the irrepressible quirk at the corner of his mouth that he was thinking the same thing. He was, however, Jill realised as he nodded politely and without a trace of ill-manners, a skilled diplomat. Perhaps this away mission was good for the officers as well as the crewmen – after all, exploration like this, on another planet with aliens that weren't shooting at them, had been a rarity in the Expanse.

Jill would later come to regret her hasty thoughts.

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His sixth sense could occasionally be the cause for great annoyance, mainly because from time to time it required a prescription to keep it from becoming too strong. It had become sharpened in the Expanse, but even Malcolm knew that there was a point when caution turned into paranoia. He had gone on four away missions since the incident on Terra Prime, and on each and every one he had been dogged by a feeling of looming danger – and each and every time he had come perilously close only to making a fool of himself. These tentacled socialists, he decided, could hardly cause much danger – unless, of course, he managed to offend them by looking so battle-ready all the time. He glanced at his officer, and gave a dry smile as he realised that he had no such compunctions – the young man appeared relaxed enough to be making eyes at the red-haired member of the quartermaster's store. Crewman Derner caught his smile and rolled her eyes.

"We will take you to the caves. There may well be ores which you can use." The alien (who seemed to be the leader, Malcolm judged, from the fact that the other two had yet to speak) nodded towards an opening in a rock face some fifty feet away, and with a shrug Archer fell into step beside him. Reed's security officer, at his glance, reluctantly moved away from Derner and positioned himself behind the Captain, whilst the two other aliens – surely bodyguards, Malcolm would recognise the type well enough, tall, burly and paranoid – glared at him suspiciously. Malcolm hung back, glancing behind and around every few minutes to ensure the security of the area. As they turned a corner it what appeared to be a well-worn path, he paused in surprise, as did Mackie. The alien at the front turned and glanced back at them in curiosity, apparently unperturbed by the source of their bemusement.

"Is all well with you, Comrades?" He asked, and Mackie raised an eyebrow, glancing from the object of such fascination to the alien and back again.

"It's a blue sheep." She stated, her tone disbelieving. "A blue sheep."

"Indeed." The alien cocked its head to one side, its tentacles swaying thoughtfully. "We call them _snorziks_. Are they not blue on your world?"

"No." Manning said, shuddering a little as the creature mistook her leg for grass and licked her boots, leaving a trail of slightly iridescent slime. "They're white."

"Oh." The alien's tentacles paused, apparently in disapproval. "How very uninteresting. Now, as I was saying, Captain..." He turned back to the Captain and the group began to move once more. Mackie shot Malcolm an exasperated glance.

"Blue?" She said, almost helplessly. "Blue?"

"Well, at least the _people_ aren't blue." He offered, shooting her a lopsided smile. Derner, bereft of a partner, fell into step on Malcolm's other side.

"You know," she said, speaking across him to Mackie, "we could use those sheep. Their wool's even the right colour for the uniforms already."

"Good point," Mackie nodded. "Go tell Miranda; she could get Tiller to grab and shave a few." It was only when Malcolm glanced up, alarmed, at her words, that he saw the laughter playing in her eyes. Derner nodded with a smile and moved away, leaving Malcolm alone with Mackie. Glancing at her face, he saw that she was almost drunk with the sensation of being on a new, different world; much as he had been the first time he had taken such steps on an alien planet. What to say in such a situation? Or should he be silent, and let her make that journey alone?

"The uniforms are made of wool?" He asked, whilst a small part of him gave a long-suffering sigh, and Mackie looked at him with eyebrows raised. A poor time to develop a conversational streak.

"Fifty-percent wool or similar man-made fibre, elastic, polymer... it isn't all just cleaning, you know."

Reed wondered if that was a veiled remark reminding him that this was her first away mission on a new planet and his sixtieth (he had stepped on more alien planets that he had ruined uniforms, a feat he considered quite admirable – it was when the two began to tally that he needed to worry).

"Why – _cleaning_?" They had almost reached the caves, now, and Reed was speaking only on auto-pilot, his gaze fixed on the darker shadows within the cave. His sixth sense was practically screaming – possibly in recompense that he could _see_ almost nothing.

"You mean, why apply for the kind of job I did?" He heard her pause, as though noticing his distraction. His gaze was still fixed on the deep recesses of the caves as they entered them. Why hadn't he brought a scanner? They could be used for security as well as scientific purposes. "Lieutenant, are you al -"

In the old cliché, she did not get much further, for at the very same moment as the three aliens in front turned their torches on, another set of torches blazed from up ahead, and a set of four rifles were aimed at them. The moment of silence was purely for effect, it seemed, for by the time Reed's hand had reached his holster and pulled his pistol out, several blasts of energy hit the cave entrance, and the rocks crumbled on top of them. As one rock struck his head and another hit his leg, Reed thought, ridiculously;

_Number fifty-one..._

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With the rest of the women away, the weekly task of dusting the bridge fell to Manning. She had often considered it a great injustice that in such an enlightened age the three men of the team would still hold such old beliefs about women being better at cleaning, but never said so for fear that she would then lose out on what was a peculiarly enjoyable task – despite the obvious embarrassment of having to go up onto the bridge in front of the entire command crew with a polishing cloth.

"Hey, Cathy." It was Travis Mayweather, looking flushed with excitement at being sat in the command chair.

"Ensign Mayweather." Catherine nodded, and caught him rolling his eyes at her insistence of using his rank. She never told him that privately she thought of him as 'Ensign Travis'. The rest of the bridge crew was made up of the delta shift, clearly on early due to the fact that most of the alpha shift were on the planet surface. It was usually during the change-over that either she or her colleagues went up to clean; Catherine felt that they had more in common with the delta command crew, mainly because they did all the jobs of the alpha shift but without any of the excitement – she always thought it grossly unfair that whenever anything 'interesting' (be that interesting in terms of a peaceful first contact or of an alien attack) occurred during the night hours the daytime command crew would drag themselves out of bed and take over. Her sympathy always stopped short, however, when she remembered that it was _her_, not _them_, who were on their knees scrubbing the deck plates. Some of these thoughts must have shown themselves on her face, for as she moved over to the communications console the officer, an over-confident ensign with a pronounced swagger named Derthman raised an eyebrow and gave a little smirk.

"Fancy swapping for a while?" He murmured, waggling his eyebrows in a manner that Manning found quite disconcerting. She took great care when spraying the console and half of his lap in the process. He winced. She didn't blame him. The mixture was strong enough to kill almost all... _bacteria_ until she neutralised it with water. Derthman looked at her with eyes which she supposed he thought doleful, but which she thought fairly lecherous. She had spent too much time around the nervous but charming Billy and the almost worryingly silent Henson to find the officer's head-on approach appealing.

"There's a problem down on the surface!" The ensign at the science officer's panel blurted out, her eyes as wide as Derthman's but to a different end. "They're in the cave, there's shooting -"

The night-time communications officer immediately proved why he was a member of Starfleet's finest crew and not a worker in a shady brothel by leaping to attention, all distraction fled from his face as his hands dashed across the console. He frowned as he listened intently to his earpiece before shaking his head.

"I can't raise them. There must be too much interference." He glanced at Cathy, who had stopped, quite still, the moment she heard the announcement. He lowered his voice. "You should go."

Catherine nodded, stumbling backwards as she bundled up her cleaning equipment. She hastened to the turbolift, closing her eyes with relief as the doors closed on her. She leant back against the cold metal panels and tried not to tremble.

The hadn't trained her for this. They hadn't trained _any_ of them for this.

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**A/N:** Uhoh, cliffy! The faster you review, the faster I update... big grin.He


	5. Chapter V: Just Throw It

**A/N:** Hello all! Look – I'm updating on time again! This must be a world record for me, lol. I'm a bit concerned that the number of 'hits' on each chapter is dwindling – I hope I'm not losing people! If anyone thinks this is getting boring, please say (though not too harshly!), and I'll re-assess things. I have a feeling this is going to be one of my longer stories, since I have written up to chapter eight already and am nowhere near to completion. I hope you guys see this as a good thing!

Anywhoo, to my reviewers:

**volley:** Well, you can't have a good story without at least one cliffhanger... and of course it's blackmail, we all love reviews! LOL. I hope no.51 lives up to your expectations...

**Verity Kindle:** Scottish? I'm a bit confused! Thanks for reviewing, anyway!

**General Kunama:** Your reviews all seem to centre around eating something! Lol... the 'yummy' scenes don't start just yet but we do have romance lurking around the corner... along with possible capture, injury and torn uniforms. All in a day's work for the good ship _Enterprise_... hope you like the next chapter and many thanks for your review!

**Begoogled:** Ah, whose to say that Malcolm gets out of it? Lol... only teasing, of course! I'm really glad you're enjoying it, and thanks for reviewing!

**Bineshii:** A new convert! I hope you're still reading and, if you are, you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I don't even actually own the idea of the Clendavins and the problems on their world, since I've borrowed that straight from history, so no, I have very little legal claim on a fair number of the ideas and characters within this story!

**Chapter Five**

**Just Throw It**

There were shots flashing above his head, his captain and five other crewmembers were in mortal danger, and he was bloody well stuck. The falling rocks had knocked him down and trapped his leg. By the amount of blood he could see oozing out of the wound – fortunately adrenaline was stemming the pain, for the time being – he didn't particularly fancy the idea of trying to force it out. Dust and smoke was in the air, and in the midst of his own hacking coughs he heard another, familiar, voice:

"Lieutenant Reed! Are you awake?" The crewman. Reed felt the urge to groan. Pretty though she might be, in a situation like this he would really rather have had someone with a phase pistol to hand, but as it was he and his ensign were the only two members of the away team armed – and due to the rocks which trapped him he couldn't see, let alone aim at, the aliens who were shooting at them.

"Affirmative, Crewman." He coughed again, and squinted at her as she shuffled closer to him.

"Give me your phase pistol." She said.

"Give you my – what?!" The shots continued to whizz above their heads, and Reed was as trapped as ever. But give a gun to a crewman whose main qualification was – it had to be said – straight stitching?

"I can get a shot at them, I'm sure. Lieutenant! Please!" The shooting seemed to intensify, and Reed's hand went to his pistol. He hesitated.

"I could pull myself out, I'm sure I could..." he tensed his arm behind him but promptly desisted as pain filled his thoughts. Through what seemed like a buzzing in his ears he heard the crewman shouting:

"Give me your pistol _now_ you – you _suicidal maniac!_"

With what was left of his strength Malcolm Reed reached into his holster and handed the pistol to Crewman Mackie. She nodded, then turned away from him, looking beyond the outcropping of rock which impeded his vision. He watched as her back tensed, and a beam of light shot from the pistol she held. There was one more shuddering crash as more rubble fell from the ceiling, and then all was still.

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She had killed them. As she stepped out into the alien sunlight, the brightness seeming almost improper, it was all she could think of. There had been time enough, in the half an hour it had taken for them to dig out of the cave, to go over it time and time again, but still she could not fathom it.

The aliens had been wearing tattered clothes quite unlike those of the Enterprise team's host, but they were the same species. By the time Mackie had managed to prise the phase pistol away from Reed they had already managed to shoot both the three other aliens and the other security officer, and they were closing in on the Captain and Jill whilst Tiller and Heron had taken refuge in an indent in the wall, Tiller protecting Heron's body with his own. The Captain in turn had been standing in front of Jill, but without a gun to hand it was a futile effort. The aliens were some five metres away from the two, and directly between them and Henny. Her aim was poor and her hands shaky. She knew that she had more chance of hitting her own people than of the hitting the aliens. But there had been an outcropping of rock directly above the aliens' heads.

There had been an outcropping of rock. Then, she had pulled her trigger, and there was no longer an outcropping of rock. There were no longer two living aliens, either.

"You saved our lives!" Jill, still blinking in the light, ran up to her, her hair flying in all directions and her hands – with which she reached out and clasped that of Henny's which was not holding the pistol – still shaking. "Henny! Are you _alright_?"

"I'm fine." She said, and saw Lieutenant Reed – assisted from the cave-in by the three aliens and his own team-member, who had it seemed been only stunned – raise his eyebrows. She looked down at her feet, not caring that the grass was the wrong colour, or a different colour from the grass on Earth. She had discovered something on this planet, and it was not just blue sheep. She held out the phase pistol to him.

"Take it." She said, which he did, wincing slightly as he shifted his leg to replace the gun in his holster. She knew, however, that neither he nor the Captain, who was also watching her carefully, missed the fact that she wiped her hand on her uniform leg upon dispensing with the pistol. The Captain nodded at her, his green eyes narrowed in both concern and, she thought, shrewd assessment. He flipped open his communicator.

"Archer to _Enterprise_. I want you to lock onto the biosigns of Crewman Mackie and Lieutenant Reed. Tell Phlox he'll be receiving a patient." Even in her daze, Mackie could not miss the sigh which escaped Reed's lips at this statement. Archer cocked his head to one side, listening to the person on the other end of the communication link. He pursed his lips suddenly. "We're all... fine. I believe it was a group of... insurgents." He glanced at their host at this, and Mackie wondered if whether in a few minutes the three supposedly friendly aliens would not be regretting the fact that they had actually escaped the cave.

"Sir, I must protest -" Lieutenant Reed started to speak, but even Henny could tell that he was slightly half-hearted in his 'protest', aware as he was that one of his own men was to remain on the planet. Archer held up a quelling hand, smiling slightly, humour returning to his eyes. Henny had to admit that it suited them.

"Of course you must, Malcolm." He spoke into his communicator again. "Two to beam up." Archer glanced back at the other three members of the Quartermaster's team. "We still have supplies to collect, after all."

"Wait." It was Reed again, holding out the phase pistol. _The_ phase pistol. It would always retain such import in Henny's mind, and she felt irrationally that though it were identical to every other phase pistol on _Enterprise_, she would always recognise it. Archer nodded, and it was the last thing Henny saw before the glitter of transport surrounded her vision once more and she felt the cold, comforting feel of the transporter pad beneath her feet.

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Reed stepped off the transporter pad into the inevitably waiting ministrations of Doctor Phlox and found Crewman Mackie gazing in apparent concern at his bloody leg.

"'Tis but a scratch." He said heartily, offering a smile, but receiving only a tightening of lips in response.

It was only a scratch, which possibly made him feel worse. Archer, carrying a scanner, had checked before removing the rocks above it whilst in the caves, and upon seeing that there was no damage to the bone and that Malcolm was still actually conscious, had with the help of the burly male crewman managed to free the leg which had already received more injuries than its owner could count. And true, he might not have been able to free _himself_, but he could have tried harder, which would have saved the crewman next to him from –

"Damnable thing." He said, as they entered sickbay and Phlox thrust him down onto a biobed. (He spoke to distract the both of them, for he usually found that the best way to stand the humiliation of treatment was to talk to another, and her eyes were too hollow for him to be able to just look away and do nothing). "Captain Archer and that other crewman -"

"Tiller." She interrupted, and Reed inclined his head.

"Crewman Tiller. Well, both were being bloody gallants, weren't they? And what was I doing? Being defended by a woman!"

There was a silence for a moment, and it held long enough for Malcolm to look back over his words and realise just how offensively old-fashioned and sexist they must have sounded, before the girl laughed.

"I hope I didn't offend your male sensibilities." She said, and he raised an eyebrow, trying desperately to ignore the fact that Phlox was tutting happily over his leg and reaching for (what else?) the glass box which he had privately dubbed the pet tank of horrors, but had wisely never shared this with Phlox.

"Do you _have_ to use those damn slugs, doctor?" He asked, glad to see that his own grumbling had elicited a slightly wider smile from the girl than before. Phlox looked at him with an expression that on a human would have looked disturbingly close to a pout.

"Of course, Lieutenant. We don't want a repeat of last time, do we? I'll be back in a moment for you, Crewman." And, with a wide grin as he deposited the foul creature on his leg, the doctor departed for his office, humming happily. Reed looked from the slug (which had come to know him intimately over the last few years – the only thing which _had_) to the young woman standing beside the bed. The latter was a much less harrowing sight, and Reed settled for studying her expression, which had become suddenly distant.

Fairly dark brown hair, matched by brown eyes which, at this moment, were clouded, lips slightly open. What was she thinking? Should he allay those thoughts?

"You know," he said, his voice sounding heartily cheery even to his own ears, "it always amazes me how Doctor Phlox can make me feel like a five year-old again."

This elicited a response in the shape of a somewhat mocking smile.

"Maybe it's because you act like one." After a second, her eyes widened as though she had just realised what she had said. Reed now supposed they were even for his earlier _faux pas_.

"First I'm a suicidal maniac, now a five year-old..." She opened her mouth to apologise and he shook his head. "I think we can forgive that, however, in light of the fact that you did my job for me."

"I -"

"Ah! Crewman Mackie." Phlox barrelled out of his office, a hypospray in hand. "I've set up a mixture that should help ease any aches but not set off any of your allergies."

Two rather irrelevant thoughts crossed Reed's mind at this point. The first was _'allergies?'_ and the second a slightly uncharitable reflection to the effect that Phlox's bedside manner around his pretty female patient was far more genial than it was around his most frequent one and definitely male one. He was even tempted to feel childishly jealous at the care with which Phlox pressed the hypospray into her arm, but then he caught sight of that hollow look in her eyes again and realised that there was very little for which he could envy the crewman.

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**A/N:** Well, they're alive, at least, which is I suppose all that can be said. So, have I given you lot enough action yet? Only one way to tell me – press the blue button!


	6. Chapter VI: Conversation Pieces

**A/N:** And here it is – my favourite chapter so far, but not the one with Trip's quarters, unfortunately. This chapter has undergone a few edits since I first wrote it – mainly that I've taken out one sub-plot to prevent tying my own brain in absolute knots – so I hope it stands up to scrutiny!

To my reviewers:

**Lady Rainbow:** Well, any woman who could ever put up with Malcolm Reed would have to be pretty well-versed in sarcasm, wouldn't she? LOL, glad you're enjoying the story!

**volley:** Wow – glad you liked it! And yes, you've finally taught me to update regularly – now I'd better keep it up! Thanks for reviewing!

**burrcat213:** Oh dear, I hope you're feeling better! Thanks for reviewing, enjoy chapter six!

**Sita Z:** Don't worry! I promise that the chapter involving Trip's cabin is coming up very soon – especially since it seems to have become one of the main selling points of this story! Thanks for reviewing – enjoy this chapter!

**Begoogled:** Who could write a sickbay scene _without_ mentioning the slugs? They're main characters! Lol – thanks for your review.

**Han:** I don't think you can beam people out of caves due to the high ore content. At least you can't in this story, lol! Thanks for reviewing!

**General Kunama:** Lol, it takes a special sense of humour to find slugs funny. Having spent my childhood teasing my brother about hating slugs, I love it! Thanks for the review, enjoy chapter six!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing to do with Enterprise, and have never even tasted scotch, so I can't really make any claim to the bones upon which this story or even this chapter is built. Sorry!

**Chapter Six**

**Conversation Pieces**

The second five returned an hour or so later, after an uncomfortable but extremely profitable discussion with the chagrined alien who had unwittingly led them into the ambush in the caves. Jill Derner still felt like rolling her eyes at the mere memory of his explanations:

_"Our society has recently undergone a... socialist revolution."_ The alien had said, its tentacles flushing a muddy brown colour. _ "Some do not appreciate the idea of the... ah... sharing of commodities within the community."_ No, Derner had thought, mentally comparing the lush gowns of even the guards with the tattered rags in which their assailants had been dressed. _"Our monarchy no longer exists!"_ The creature had added, as though this defended what had happened. Even Derner, who had worked with the Captain but a handful of times (she had been a student of both cultural studies and art, which meant that she had been called upon to design and create passable 'costumes' for the rare times when _Enterprise_ made an undercover mission to a pre-warp world), could tell by the thinning of his lips and the muscle working in his jaw that he was trying extremely hard to refrain from commenting at this point. Tiller, however, had no such qualms:

"What do we care about your blimmin' monarchy when we've almost all been shot to death?" He had said, glaring belligerently at the alien, his hand still gripping Heron's arm. "We almost died today! Would have, if it ha'nt been for our Henny's quick thought!"

The captain had shot Tiller a quelling look, and the alien had gone on to offer whatever commodities the _Enterprise_ required – free – to compensate them for their experience. Archer had, grudgingly (thinking perhaps that the portly and officious alien had suffered enough), then taken his leave of the planet with a promise to have one of his officers compile a database on Earth history for the Clendavins to peruse. The creature's tentacles had perked up wondrously, and Jill even thought she had caught what seemed like a smile from its puckered mouth before the planet – and the alien – glimmered out of sight.

So now they were back, and Jill had never felt so glad to smell the distinct scene of cleaning fluid that, for her, filled almost every waking hour. It seemed that Catherine (it wasn't likely to be Henson, she thought, before clamping his name from her mind) had been on a cleaning spree in their absence. She glanced across at her fellows, and saw that Heron, so calm and collected on the planet, was suddenly very pale.

"M'randa..." Tiller was, of course, by her side, and Derner watched, wondering if the inevitable would finally happen.

"You should go to sickbay, let Phlox check you out," Archer said, and Derner was sure by the slight smile on his face that he noticed the open concern on Tiller's face too. "Crewman, could you escort her?"

"Aye sir." Tiller nodded formally, and began to walk Heron down the corridor, placing his arm firmly round her waist for good measure. Heron paused and looked back.

"But sir, there's work to be -"

"Don't worry, Quartermaster." Archer interrupted, and Derner raised an eyebrow. So the Captain understood enough about their below-decks family to call Heron by the one title which would soften her to do anything. He must have caught her look, for he shrugged slightly once the pair were round the corner. Derner stood, wondering if she should ask to be dismissed, or if she should say – _some_thing – before leaving for her quarters and, hopefully, a good sleep. She settled for the latter.

"Thankyou, sir." She said, and Archer looked at her, his brown eyes closing for a moment in bemusement.

"What for?"

"For protecting me. Down on the planet." She paused. "It was very... gallant of you."

Archer's lips quirked upwards, briefly.

"Don't mention it." He paused, then added (extremely generously, Derner thought); "You did very well too, under the circumstances."

Derner was astonished to find that she blushed at his statement, and became all at once aware of the utter state in which she was in. Her hair was plastered across areas of her face from which it was usually mercilessly barred through the use of hairclips and spray, her uniform was covered in dust and other substances about which she did not wish to ask, and she could feel the adrenaline that had sustained her for the past hour beginning to wear off, leaving her drained and more than a little shaky. Her nerves, and nothing else, were surely the reason that a kind comment from her (undeniably attractive, a voice in her head whispered, but she quelled it immediately) much older commanding officer.

"Thankyou, sir," she said at last, searching for something more to say, but all words and all thoughts suddenly vanished as she turned at the sound of running feet to be met with the sight of Annan Henson, his pale face flushed, his hair flying in every direction, and his eyes wide and haunted.

"Jilly! Are you alright?" He had stopped, gasping for air, barely a foot away from her. At the corner of her eye, Jill saw the Captain smile slightly and tactfully make a discreet exit. She looked at Henson, unsure of what to say, until she realised that for the first time in months he had called her Jilly.

"Yes, Annan." She said. "I'm alright."

888

He had been released from sickbay (thank god) with nothing more than a prescription of painkillers, a new scar, and a slight limp that, Phlox assured him, would fade within a few days. He was writing his report at his desk when the ring of the bell interrupted him, and he paused before answering, knowing as he did who it would – or might be. There was a chance, of course, that it was Tucker, congratulating him on escaping death yet again, but Trip usually walked right in, unannounced, unless he knew the away mission had been especially traumatic. This one hadn't been – not for him, at least.

"Come in," he said, and felt a slight twinge of pride as his guess was proven right by the silhouette of Crewman Mackie's slim figure in his doorway. The twinge, however, was soon superseded by a greater one of guilt when, as she stepped into the light of quarters, looking somewhat wary, he recognised the lines of guilty sleeplessness graven into her too-young face. She held a box out before her.

"I – I brought some more charge packs. For the pistols." He took the box from her, hearing well enough the slight catch in her voice before the word 'pistols'.

"Have a seat." He nodded towards the bed and, after a hesitation, she took it, the door swishing to a close as she stepped fully into the room. He turned away from her, back to his desk, flicking the catches on the strong-box open. He was disappointed, but unsurprised, at what he found inside. He picked one of the charge packs up, his accustomed eye picking out every fumble, every poor piece of welding, and realised that he would have to do something that most certainly was not in his job description – act as counsellor to a girl who, through no fault of her own, had returned from the away mission with scars far more difficult to treat than the physical. He turned to her, watching in silence as she fiddled with a ring on the index finger of her left hand, looking ill at ease and out of place, perched on the edge of his bed. Her feet hovered ever-so-slightly off the floor, moving in a nervous rhythm, beating every now and then against the deckplates as though in an effort to split the silence.

"This work is shoddy, Crewman." He said at last, and her eyes widened slightly.

"I -"

"Don't." He held out a hand to stop her and she did, her lips pressed together in confusion, and, Malcolm thought – anger. He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. Give him a misaligned targeting scanner any day... "I'm sorry for what happened on the planet's surface, Crewman."

Her brave joviality of earlier had been but a front, he knew this well enough – he had the feeling that she was usually a merry sort, and used her smile as the same kind of shield as he usually used his silence. Both were effective, but only up to a point.

Anger flashed in the crewman's face, and prettiness contorted in the unnatural lines of guilt and blame.

"Yes." She said. "So am I." She paused, then burst out; "Why did you take so long to give me the pistol? You bloody fool!"

He let the words ring, and after a moment her eyes widened and she rose, her hand to her mouth.

"Oh – god – I didn't -" she made for the door but he reached out swiftly and held her by the wrist.

"Don't." He said softly, before releasing her hand. She sighed and sat back down on the bed, running a hand through already-flyaway hair. "Do you mind me asking – your name?"

A rather rueful smile crossed her face.

"Henrietta." She said. "But – everyone calls me Henny." She shook her head. "My parents clearly didn't like me much."

Malcolm laughed, feeling suddenly self-conscious of the lack of family pictures that _he_ had on his walls.

"I know the feeling," he said, touching his chest with a nod, "Malcolm."

Henny rolled her eyes.

"I know. You _do_ know that we talk about you lot downstairs, don't you?"

You lot. Downstairs. The language of the servants talking about their 'upstairs' counterparts. Malcolm shook the unnerving image from his mind asked;

"So, _why_ a crewman? From what I've seen, you'd make a damned fine officer." And from her shooting, a damned fine security officer, but he doubted she would be wanting to pick up a gun again any time soon.

"It takes four years training to become an officer," she reminded him, "and there's an old myth that it's easier to become an Ensign once you're actually _on_ a starship. Of course," she shrugged, "that's been proved wrong, hasn't it?"

Reed nodded. The old myth – older than starships, anyway. His father, who had joined the navy as a ship's boy, took great pride in having vindicated that myth in going from rankless skivvy to decorated ship's captain. Pushing such memories from his mind, he flashed the still ill-at-ease Henny a brief smile.

"Now," he said, bending down at reaching into his bottom drawer, "I'm going to seriously violate regulations. I hope you'll forgive me." With a wink (which he instantly regretted – if acting counsellor to young women wasn't in his job description, _winking_ at them most certainly wasn't) he placed two glasses on the desk, half-filling one and filling the other almost to the top. He handed Henny the larger one, which she took with a slight shake of her head.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant." She said. "You don't think that, having cleaned your cabin and changed your bedding for the last four years, I don't know what kind of things you have hidden in your bottom drawer?"

Malcolm felt a slight heat rising just around his collar, and coughed awkwardly. He was recognising again the wisdom of not fraternising with subordinates – if they were at the _very_ bottom rung, then chances were they knew too much about you already. Henny laughed again, taking a gulp of the amber liquid – whisky, though not the best, for Reed sensed that quantity and not quality was going to be the issue here – and added;

"And anyway, it's an unwritten rule on _any_ ship that you've got to have a secret stash. I favour wine, myself, but there are some who are in favour of bringing back the old naval tradition – you know, a tot of rum every day to keep the blood burning."

"I know," Malcolm said softly, "I know a lot about naval tradition."

Henny said nothing, but held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable before returning to a study of her glass. They drank in silence for a time, whilst Malcolm wondered wryly whether such methods would be approved by Starfleet. He didn't have a sofa and he knew he'd make an awful psychiatrist, so he supposed they would have to do with a Starfleet-issue mattress and a glass or two of his most potent alcohol. Unprofessional? Perhaps. But the fact remained that he owed a debt to the girl (_woman_, he thought, for whilst she was young she was not a child – at least not after today) and that, whilst duty and honour often overlapped, in the cases where they didn't the latter was usually the most important to adhere to.

"You did what you had to, Henny." He said, her name waking her from her daze and surprising him with how strange it felt on his lips. To give her her name was to make the first overture to a thing closer to friendship than mere comradeship. It had taken him weeks to go from "Commander Tucker" to "Trip", after all. "Sometimes the best course of action is still one that seems... morally unacceptable." Even as he spoke he winced. He was preaching. What else could he do? Tell her that he – "I'm sorry." He said. "I'm not making myself clear. What I mean is – I know. How it feels." He did, but that didn't mean he was wildly eager to talk about it. Henny turned her eyes, dark and verging just on the desperate, to him.

"Does it get better?" She stopped, then said: "I keep seeing their faces! And a part of me feels that _they_ were only doing what they had to – so how can what _I_ did ever be right?"

He hesitated. The truth would be more painful than lies, but the truth had far more power to sustain, if not comfort, than a few flimsy words would in the long run.

"When I'm up on the bridge," he began carefully, "and the captain gives the order to fire on another ship -"

"That's not -" Henny began to protest, but he cut her off.

"I know it's not. But when I fire on another ship, I know that in doing so, more often than not, my actions will cause men to die. But I can't _see_ them." He paused. He had wondered over this himself, many times, and had never come up with a satisfactory answer for himself. How then to explain to someone else? "I think that when you see their face, it gives them more reality than it does if you hadn't. You see a face and you mentally add a life, a family to that person."

Henny nodded, then, with a grimace, chucked back the remainder of her glass. Malcolm was impressed despite himself. He gave a smile as he refilled her glass.

"You can hold your drink well." He said, and she shrugged, a small smile playing across her face.

"I did go to college, you know, even if I _didn't_ attend officer training."

"Ah. Alright."

There was another silence, but this time it was a far more companionable one, and Malcolm realised that, ridiculous though it was, _he_ was in fact the most qualified person to speak to Henny about what had happened on the planet. She didn't want answers – she wanted someone to tell her she wasn't alone.

"Yes," he said at last, very softly, placing his glass to one side, "it _does_ get better. Not instantly, and not completely, but in a week or a month or three months your emotions will lessen and you'll accept that what you did _was_ for the best." It was poorly put, he knew: the crewman had realised already that she had done the only thing she could, but there was a difference between realising and accepting.

Henny gave him a smile, not as wide or as bright as those he had chanced to receive before the away mission, but still a smile. And, whilst she was still fiddling with her ring, it was in a manner that implied relaxation rather than perturbation.

"Thankyou," she said, then glanced at the chronometer on his desk. Her eyes widened. She rose hastily. "I should go."

Malcolm nodded, standing too, somewhat self-conscious at the half-amused look which crossed her face at his old-fashioned gesture.

"Goodnight." He said, and she nodded, tapping the door panel.

"Night." She stepped out of the room, and the door hissed to a close behind her. Malcolm turned back to his report, his mind eased but a little by the conversation of the last hour. At least a few of the pained lines had left Henrietta Mackie's face, but he had a feeling they would not be fully forgotten for a long time.

888

**A/N:** So? What do you think? Please review and tell me!


	7. Chapter VII: Feuding Gossip

**A/N:** Oops. I did it again... forgot to update! What with one thing (Christmas and New Year shenanigans) and another (Philosophy and Ethics AS Level Exam, ugh) this sort of managed to slip through the net. But here we are anyway! Chapter Seven – and if you think I'd let any of the characters in this fic have a peaceful time after the fun they had on their away mission... think again! Ah, and for everyone who has been waiting for it; I finally present you with Trip's quarters...

Thanks to **Bineshii**, **Exploded Pen**, **General Kunama**, **Begoogled**, **Lady Rainbow**, and **volley** for reviewing the last chapter – I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Enterprise_ but the characters making up the "Quartermaster's Store" are all of my own (very humble) creation.

**Chapter Seven**

**Feuding Gossip**

Jill awoke and felt his breath, slow and shallow, tickling her face and wondered idly where Billy had slept that night. She turned, smiling slightly, to look at his face, half-smiling in sleep. Goodness knew he rarely smiled whilst _awake_.

A part of her wanted to ask _what have we done_, whilst another – far stronger part – was more than content to settle in the warmth of the morning. It was Sunday, and their only day of rest. Let the uniforms stay dirty, today.

Annan stirred, then opened his eyes. In the first daze of waking, he gave her a sleepy smile, but it faded as he sat up, his eyes darkening.

"Oh." He said. "Jill."

"Oh." Derner looked at him, the warmth suddenly expelled from the room, or so it seemed. Had someone changed the environmental settings? Beside her, Annan pulled away from a hand she had not even realised she had placed on his arm, and flopped back against the pillows, his lips set in a think line.

"God." He said, throwing the name of a deity in which she knew he did not believe with a bitterness she could not quite fathom. "What the hell have we done?"

She could feel the cool, textured sheets beneath and above her body. Suddenly she did not want to release them, for to do so would mean stepping out of a cocoon of ignorance that she had, until a few minutes ago, blissfully retained.

"Damn it," she said instead, her tone dry, "you beat me to it."

Silence. Not a lovers' silence, though they had experienced that type, the night before, both shaking with relief and the escape of what had seemed certain death. This silence Derner also knew, and she wondered if she should just get up and leave straightaway, to save Annan the bother of formulating the words.

"You should go. Billy will want to come in to get his clothes soon." Annan said, some moments later, and she snorted in the joyless triumph of having her thoughts verified.

"Going." She said, stepping out of the bunk with as much dignity as she could, clad only in a thin Starfleet-issue blanket. She picked up her clothes, blinking away the memories of their _removal_ the night before, and entered the small closet-bathroom, dressing hastily and avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. When she stepped back into the main quarters, Annan was still lying on the bed, his hands folded beneath his jet-covered skull. His gaze was on her, and he frowned as she made for the door.

"Is that it?" He sounded mildly offended, and Jill turned, her brows knit together by the force of her own anger.

"I beg your pardon?" She asked, and Annan raised a single infuriating eyebrow.

"You made more fuss last time."

Last time – _last time!_ For a moment, Jill allowed herself to imagine rising to that bait, but she did not. She merely stiffened her shoulders and threw the sheet she had been holding at Annan, so that it covered his slim, pale torso from view.

"Good morning, Crewman Henson." She said, and, hitting the door-release with slightly more vigour than was necessary, beat a hasty retreat. Only upon reaching her own quarters, to find Henny lying on the bottom bunk with the slight smile of dreamless sleep on her face, did she allow herself to show her pillow the depth of her anger, and a few tears along the way. The pillow, had it been able to talk, would probably have had a few words to say to Annan Henson.

888

Catherine did not usually work on a Sunday – she was not _that_ industrious – but for once she decided that the silence of her quarters – punctuated by Heron's snores – was probably _not_ preferable to the relative peace and quiet of, say, the command crew's quarters, well overdue for a dust and sheet-change. The crew was split into three groups, each taking their day off on a separate day – dependent, of course, on if there was work which couldn't wait – and the command crew usually had Saturday off, so their quarters would be empty today.

Catherine decided to approach the quarters with her usual tactic – that is, leaving the best till last and getting the messiest over and done with. Unsurprisingly, her first port of call was Commander Tucker's humble abode.

"Ugh," she said, wrinkling her nose as she entered in the maintenance pass-code and crossed over the threshold into the cabin which the 'clean team' had long since given up trying to reform from its customary state of messiness.

A plate of half-finished pan-fried catfish proved to be the source of the offensive odour, though as she tipped it away, marvelling at the interesting red-and-green patterns of mould upon it, Catherine did wonder what kind of emergency must have occurred for Trip Tucker to leave anything but the barest of bones from the meal that was famed to be his favourite. Very few other members of the crew actually favoured the fish, but the chef knew his priorities – feed the commanding officers well first, then deal with likes and dislikes of the common rabble.

"The man must have something wrong with his nose," Cathy muttered, and she recovered a worryingly crispy uniform from the side of the bed and frowned at the brown and black marks covering it. Holding it at arms length – she wouldn't put it past any of Tucker's rubbish to contain something _live_ in it – she dumped it in the large mess bag she had brought precisely for the purpose. The next quarter of an hour continued in peaceful, if slightly malodorous, silence, and Cathy nodded in satisfaction when at last she had cleared up enough to actually _see_ the floor.

"Coffee cups," she muttered, collecting an armful of the offending items and dumping them in her bag, "why can't the man take them back to the mess hall? He has legs, doesn't he? Though," she glanced into one of the cups and closed her eyes at the sight of the inch-thick, oddly-glowing sludge within, "if he waits long enough they'll probably _grow_ legs and take themselves."

She paused, realising that she was not only talking to herself, but was also doing so in a style and tone far more suited to a certain Miranda Heron. She shook her head, before turning to strip the mattress and change the sheets. She exited the quarters ten minutes later, only a little worse for wear, and glanced down at the next name on her list. Ensign Dalton, a new recruit and, at twenty, still retaining all the hygiene and tidiness habits of a teenager. It was enough to make her think longingly of Charles Tucker's chamber of forgotten mugs and impromptu scientific experiments.

Then again, Catherine thought, glancing into her bag and hastily closing it again as a cocktail of delicate aromas wafted up to her nose, maybe not.

888

Billy returned to the quarters he shared with Annan Henson, intending to spend the morning reading on the comfort of his bunk, then saw the look on Henson's face and decided that he needed to re-evaluate. He could either beat a hasty retreat – which was probably safer for his short-term health – or he could stay and talk with Annan about it, which would probably in the long-term save him an awful lot of self-pitying rhetoric from his infuriating, intelligent, and undeniably attractive bunk-mate.

"You did it again, didn't you." He said, sitting on the sole chair and raising an eyebrow at the suddenly black face on the lower bunk. "Fu – messed her around." When Annan made no response, he exclaimed: "For goodness' sake, Annan, she deserves better than this – than you!"

"Yes." Annan nodded, infuriatingly. "She does. Which is why I sent her away."

Billy resisted the strong urge to put his head in his hands and groan loudly. Whatever people said about his general clumsiness, at least _he_ didn't possess Annan's seemingly self-destructive attitude towards relationships. Annan caught his look and sat up in bed, his expression a little wild.

"I'm not good enough for her!"

Billy turned away from the splendidly black hair and flushed cheeks, and picked up a PADD without even looking at what was on it.

"You," he said softly, "have serious problems with your self-esteem."

Annan snorted.

"And you," he said, rising, dropping the bedcovers and stalking to the bathroom to dress, "have serious problems with your _nose_. Keep it out of my business."

Billy said nothing, merely stared harder at the PADD to distract him from the sudden desire to follow Annan and tell him exactly what he thought of him, his self-esteem, and his apparently private business.

He almost laughed at the title of the 20th century book which Annan had loaded onto the PADD: _Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus_.

"Mars and Venus aren't inhabited," he muttered, grinning slightly.

888

Cathy sighed in relief as she reached the last cabin on her list – Lieutenant Reed's. The man was scrupulously tidy (a sign, Miranda had always said, of serious emotional problems), and the Quartermaster's crew had very little to do in his cabin save change the sheets and check the cupboards for any lurking, torn uniforms. Cathy had a sneaking suspicion that he sometimes hid them to save total exasperation from Miranda's team.

Sure enough, she entered to find the room as tidy as she had left if the last time she had entered it three weeks ago – the bed made with neat, military folds that rivalled her own. Only the desk was untidy, cluttered with PADDs which Cathy couldn't help but glance at as she piled them up. One was the report regarding the previous day's away mission, and catching sight of Henny's name Catherine perused the lines with morbid interest.

_"Crewman Mackie,"_ Reed had written, _"conducted herself with professionalism and extreme level-headedness in a potentially dangerous situation. Upon realising that she was the only individual in a position to defend against our attackers, she..."_

Cathy put the PADD down, her cheeks flaming as she thought of what Miranda Heron would say if she knew that she had been reading what was essentially private material. Pushing the PADD away from her reach, she turned to the bed and, with slightly more force than was necessary, picked up the quilt and shook it out. Something fell out with a faint ping, and Cathy bent down to pick it - whatever 'it' was – and stopped in astonishment. It was Henny's ring, a thin gold band which she always wore on the index finger of her left hand. Cathy had asked about it, the first time she had met Henny:

_"You married?" _She had asked, glancing at the ring.

_"No," _Henny had laughed, shaking her head, _"otherwise I'd wear it on my ring finger. It was my mother's. She died and – well, I wear it now."_

_"All the time?"_ Cathy hadn't said she was sorry, because she saw something in Henny's look that made it unnecessary. At her words, however, Henny's eyes had crinkled at the corners.

_"All the time – except when I'm in situations which I wouldn't want my mother seeing."_

Cathy had laughed, at the time. Now she sat down on the floor, looking at the ring and trying hard not to think about what situation might have arisen in Lieutenant Reed's quarters to have made Henny take it off.

888

Malcolm Reed was in the armoury, more or less minding his own business – and his own cannons – when Trip Tucker walked in, a smirk flickering on his face.

"What are you up to, Commander?" Reed asked, faintly suspicious. If the man wanted to ask him to run the armoury on even _less_ energy –

"I might ask you the same thing, Loo-tenant." Trip said, still smirking, and Malcolm threw him an even more suspicious glance as he turned back to the console, squinting slightly at the dense readout.

"Oh, yes?" He had the slight feeling that Trip was in the mood to take a circular route to get to his point, and decided to listen with only half an ear. He was therefore more than a little surprised when, after humming and 'hah'ing beside him for a short time, Trip asked:

"So, when you planning to see Miss Mackie again?" It was the tone, more than the words, which made Malcolm whirl around in astonishment.

"_What?_"

Trip looked a little surprised, too, at Malcolm's response, but continued valiantly, though looking a trifle uncomfortable even so.

"Well," he said, "rumour has it she spent the night in your cabin, but..."

Malcolm was very glad he had paused to listen before taking a swig from a nearby water bottle, for as it was he choked slightly before staring at Trip in utter miscomprehension.

"I – _what?_"

Trip held up his hands a little defensively, and Malcolm realised he had taken a step towards him. He subsided, shaking his head in astonishment.

"She came for a _chat_, Trip, and was gone by twenty-two hundred hours. God, this ship's rumour mill can make a sordid love affair out of anything!" He paused, frowning slightly. "I don't suppose you have any idea who initiated this _rumour_, do you?"

Trip shuffled a little, frowning in what Malcolm knew to be a delaying tactic, At last, he said reluctantly:

"Crewman Manning, I heard. She works in the Quartermaster's store. Apparently she's been going around in a bit of a tizzy complanin' that you, uh, took advantage of Mackie when she was in a, ah... fragile state."

Malcolm nodded. It had been Manning who had sent him that note, and he had replied, jovially: well, if this was where fraternising with the crew got him, he knew what he would do if another note were to arrive. He was about to tell Trip exactly what he thought of Manning and her gossip, when in burst that self-same Crewman, blonde-air streaming with a righteous fire and a formidable expression upon her face. Even Reed stepped back slightly as five-foot nothing worth of raging woman strode up to him and stopped barely a metre away from him.

"May I have a word, Lieutenant?" She said, and Malcolm, horribly aware as he was of the curious glances of his crew, could see little to do in the face of her apparent fury save nod in acquiescence. "Good. I need to talk to you about Henny. The thing is - "

"About that, Crewman -" Malcolm attempted to interrupt, but Manning merely raised her voice and he subsided, shrugging at Trip.

" – the thing is, I'm aware that she's very pretty and all that, but I don't think it's really terribly professional of you to sleep with her, especially considering what happened on the planet yesterday, and I..." the crewman trailed off, her fury apparently burned out, leaving only an expression of slight confusion as to what she was doing in the armoury upbraiding a superior officer. She seemed to re-gather her confidence, however, as she reached into her pocket. "Well, Lieutenant, I think you should talk to her – and give her this back, she left it in your cabin." And with that, Crewman Manning dropped a thin gold ring into his hand and turned on her heel, leaving an extremely bemused Lieutenant Reed behind in the muttering company of half-a-dozen highly curious armoury crewmen and one intensely amused Trip Tucker.

888

**A.N:** Please review, if you've forgiven me for taking so long to update!


	8. Chapter VIII: A Wedding Band

**A/N:** Hello all! I know this chapter has been a long time coming (sorry, sorry, sorry!) and I know I always give the same excuse but, believe me, busy doesn't quite describe my life since I started doing A Levels. Rest assured that I will finish this story, but I cannot give any guarantees that it will be particularly soon, especially since there are quite a few chapters to get through as well... Anyway, here we are with chapter eight! To my reviewers (who, of course, are all wonderful!);

**Verity Kindle:** You don't watch the show? Lol, you're missing out, but anyway, yes, I imagine Malcolm's expression was a sight to see!

**burrcat213:** Naughtiness? Who said anything about naughtiness? Looks innocent. Thanks for reviewing!

**firebirdgirl:** Ah, welcome to the Quartermaster's Store! It's nice to see a new reader; I hope you enjoy the rest!

**mw:** Hmm, interesting idea, bringing in the Cook team – scope for a whole new fic methinks... Thanks for reviewing, hope you enjoy chapter eight, and sorry it took so long!

**LadyRainbow:** Having been writing about these characters for almost six months (blimey), I think that pretty much all of them have a serious number of 'issues'... and below it gets even more complicated! Anyway, thanks loads for reviewing, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Valadan:** Another new reader! Thanks loads for reviewing – sorry this chapter took so long!

**Disclaimer:** The _Enterprise_ and its command crew do not belong to me. The rather motley collection of 'downstairs crew', however, do. Anyone crazy enough is welcome to borrow them!

**Chapter Eight**

**A Wedding Band**

Henny, working in the Quartermaster's store under the concerned and watchful eye of Miranda Heron, was completely unaware of any rumours circulating with regards to her apparently very passionate affair with one Lieutenant Reed. Annan and Jill, likewise, were too involved with their own rather _un_passionate affair to be concerned with rumours, Tiller never gossiped and Billy thought it best to keep his mouth shut considering the general mood of the store. It was therefore with some surprise that the six individuals working in the store that day looked up to find the grim countenance of Malcolm Reed enter their humble abode.

"Crewman Mackie," he said, ignoring Miranda's effusive greeting, "may I have a word?"

Seeing his expression and knowing with a rare insight of male sensitivity that discretion was required, Tiller cleared his throat and announced:

"You know, Billy, we'd best go down to engineering, see if Commander Tucker needs anything."

"But sir," Billy said, frowning, "we don't _both _- " he stopped, wilting suddenly under the combined glares of Ryan Tiller and Malcolm Reed, and rose with a nod and followed Tiller out of the door. Annan, without saying a word, got up and walked out, and after biting her lip and glancing between Henny and Annan, Jill Derner gave a helpless shrug and followed him. Miranda – who had heard the rumours but given them no heed until now – hung back and shot Henny an encouraging smile.

"Good luck." She said, and departed, leaving Henny feeling rather like the last man standing at the end of a battle. She glanced at the scowling face of the armoury officer and smiled weakly.

"You must have set a record. They don't even move that fast for one of Chef's specials." Her attempt at joviality fell flat, and she bit her lip, wondering why she was feeling so guilty when she didn't even know what she was supposed to have done. Was Reed offended because she had gone to his quarters the night before? He had welcomed her, or so she thought. She sighed. There was only one way to find out, and it wouldn't be achieved simply by sitting silently. To give herself some courage, however, she rose to her feet, nothing with a perverse satisfaction that her eyes were on an exact level with his. "Would you mind telling me, Lieutenant," she asked, her voice shaking a little, "what I am supposed to have done?"

There was a brief flash of surprise across his face, then, and Henny realised – with a tremor that felt almost like laughter – that his severity had not been towards her but to him_self_. She had seen that guilty look, after all, following the away mission. The face of the alien she had killed flashed in her mind once more, and she clenched her jaw, forcing it away.

"Or... what have _you_ done?" She asked, and Reed laughed, a rueful smile spreading across his face.

"Nothing, for once," he said, shaking his head, "but rather – what we are _supposed_ to have done."

Henny frowned in confusion.

"What?"

The smile was definitely there, now. Reed inclined his head slightly, the faint tremor in his shoulders indicating that he was holding back laughter.

"Well," he said dryly, "supposedly you and I, last night, shared a sleepless night of debauchment and passion." He raised an eyebrow. "I wish I'd been there to see it."

Henny spluttered with laughter, but when she caught sight of Reed's face she quietened. He was no longer smiling, and she realised – with the feeling of a slightly pricked ego – that he was positively mortified at the thought that the crew believed that they had done anything more than talk in his cabin that night.

"People don't – I mean, no one actually _believes_ it, do they?" She asked, and Reed's face darkened slightly, deepening the lines in his face and reminding Henny that as well as being her superior officer he was also more than ten years her senior. Did he care _so_ much about appearances, then?

"They wouldn't," Reed said, "if it were not spread by such a reliable source – your friend Crewman Manning."

"_Cathy?_" Henny shook her head, blinking slightly. "But – _why?_"

"Well," Reed said, a hint of humour returning to his voice, "it may have something to do with this ring, which she thrust at me in the armoury – in front of a dozen other crew-members – with a severe dressing-down for 'using' you in such an unprofessional manner."

Henny frowned at the ring which he held up for a moment, before biting her lip as she remembered what she had told Cathy about it. It was almost laughable, really – it had never fallen off by accident before, though she did have the habit of playing with it when she was anxious.

"Oh." She said, not especially keen to explain to the lieutenant why her friend had instantly equated the presence of her ring in his quarters with their spending the night together, and then feeling a surge of guilt as she realised she had not even noticed her mother's heirloom as missing. She held out her hand. "May I have it back, please?"

Reed nodded but, instead of placing it in her palm as she had expected, took her hand and slid the ring onto the fourth finger. Her hand twitched slightly and he dropped it, looking rather shocked at his own actions.

"I'm sorry – I didn't – I mean - " He stopped, and Henny couldn't help but note that, with his hair sticking up from when he had brushed a troubled hand through it and his face flushed a deep red, he looked very much more like a schoolboy than a Starfleet officer. The image contrasted so greatly with the sombre, serious Lieutenant of a few moments before that Henny laughed, realising only as she did so that this was a mistake, for Reed's expression turned instantly from embarrassment to one of anger. "Crewman," he said, biting the word out, "I would be very grateful if you would do your best to quell these inappropriate rumours." He inclined his head grudgingly. "Good day to you."

With that, he turned and left. Henny let out a long breath and sat down, closing her eyes briefly. She had come very close – too close – to snapping at Reed as he had walked out, and it had taken whatever shred of controlshe hadleft _not_ to. She knew, after all, a temper that did not need testing when she saw one. Yet her _own_ temper - or control – was also very close to breaking. She had avoided thinking about it all day and yet now, if only to distract herself from the disastrous interview she had just experienced, she cast her thoughts back to the men she had killed, and what the others had learnt about them.

_"I think they were protestors of some sort,"_ Miranda had said, looking unsure whether to tell her even that much, fragile as she knew she had seemed, _"you see, the new government that has taken over preaches equality but... well, as far as I can see, they're well fed and their people __**aren't**__, which to me seems a pretty poor way of running a society."_ Even in the circumstances, Henny had smiled slightly. Miranda was not, by her own admission, the greatest academic but she had a wry, temperedinstinct combined with an innate sense of justice. Fortunately, her other main quality – her motherliness – overruled any possibility of her condemning Henny for her actions. Henny, unfortunately, already blamed herself. She had seen the faces of the two men (she had ceased to think of them as 'aliens', oddly-coloured and tentacled as they were) and would continue to see them, drawn and hunger-lined, every night as she lay down to sleep. She knew who, in a fair argument, she would support.

She looked up (glad now for any distraction) as the door swished open once more, half-hoping that it would be the lieutenant, but felt a similar surge of anticipation – though of a rather more brutal sort – when she saw that it was, in fact, Catherine Manning, looking rather chagrined.

"Hello, Henny." She said. Henny nodded, and rose to her feet, doing her best to imitate Malcolm Reed's most effective glare – a glare which, she thought to herself with a more than a little surprising bitterness, Reed had trained on _her_ but a few minutes ago thanks to Catherine Manning's leaping mind and wagging tongue.

"Cathy," she said. "We need to talk."

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Jill had given up pursuing Henson when he had taken refuge in one of the maintenance hatches, deciding that if he was desperate enough to avoid her that he would willingly enter such a dusty, close-crammed place then he probably deserved to be left well alone. She headed to the gym, instead – Henny's "word" with Lieutenant Reed might well take anything from between two minutes to an hour – and was a little surprised to find Billy there, already pummelling a red punch bag. She grabbed it as it swung towards her, frowning a little.

"Easy, there. Whatever happened to checking on engineering with Tiller?"

Billy snorted and brushed a lock of bright hair from his eyes, and Jill watched him for a moment, thinking of the rumours whispered among the women of the lower-decks that he liked her... in a way that Annan clearly didn't. What would things be like, if she tried to return those feelings? Simpler, for one – Billy had none of the issues, or neuroses, which plagued Annan, who, it was said, had received the lowest score in psychological stability testing in the entire crew. What-might-have-beens were comforting, to an extent.

"As I said: you don't need two." Billy replied guardedly, and Jill hastily re-assessed her idea of his 'simplicity' as she followed him into the changing rooms and leant against the wall. He glanced back at her, his gaze a little more open. "You must be desperate for company, to risk seeing me in the nude, Jilly."

Jill laughed, realising as he said it he was quite right – she had come to the gym for someone to talk to, not for a workout. She shrugged, though wondered if her presence embarrassed him, and whether she would be pleased it if did.

"We work in pretty close quarters, _William_," she said, returning his 'Jilly' with her own use of his most formal name, "there's not much I don't _know_ about you, after all." It was true: the worst place to try and keep a secret was on a starship. Billy, however, shot her a slightly odd look, his lips pursed.

"You think?"

Jill rolled her eyes, if only to allay the moment when the conversation would turn from teasing to serious.

"You, Billy, are as white as the untrod snow. In fact," she paused, feeling a sudden flush of courage and recklessness, "the only secret you've managed to keep is who it is that you..." she trailed off and Billy paused, with his t-shirt halfway up his body, his expression frozen.

"What?" He asked, and Jill saw his Adam's apple bob slightly as he swallowed. She took a step towards him.

"Do you find me attractive, Billy?" She asked, even as her rational mind groaned in protest. What was she doing? Avenging herself on Annan? Or putting right a mistake she had made long ago?

"Jill, I really don't think we should be -" Billy spluttered, looking helplessly young in his half-rucked up shirt, "- Jill, it isn't you – it's Annan!"

Jill paused, expecting this protest – he shared a cabin with Annan, after all – but something in his voice made her pause, and she looked at him carefully. His hands were outstretched, stopping her from coming any closer, but his expression was not one of man torn between honouring a friend and fulfilling his own desires. In fact – 

"When you say," Jill said quietly and very, very slowly, "that 'it's Annan', do I take it that you mean..." she trailed off, and Billy shrugged a little ruefully.

"I mean, you are a very attractive woman, Jilly, it's just -"

"I'm a _woman_." Jill nodded, before bursting out laughing at his abashed expression. Glancing down, she realised his hands were still up in defence and quickly stepped back, the flush of embarrassment filling her. "Oh, God, Billy, I'm sorry – I really wouldn't have –"

"Stop." Billy held up a hand, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. I know what you were doing, and I know _why_ you were doing it, it's just – well, you'd have better luck with the _Captain_ than with me."

Jill choked slightly, then glanced at him, a little curiously.

"I take back what I said. You're a dark horse, William Cortan. Annan, huh?"

Billy shuffled awkwardly, and Jill was exceptionally glad that this was a time when few people came into the gym. She didn't want to think about the rumours – true or not – that would fly should the news get out that she had spent half an hour in the men's shower room with the supposedly shy and innocent Billy. 

"Yes. Please don't tell him."

"Of course I won't!" Jill paused, another thought striking her. "But, Billy – we're in competition now!"

Billy laughed, then, and Jill had to admit that she had not heard him utter such a sound before. He had laughed, of course, at the many and varied jokes that popped up during long and boring shifts, but he had always seemed a little guarded. He had freed himself, with her, at least.

"I wouldn't worry about that, Jill. Annan doesn't – well, I don't think he approves of _my sort_ particularly well." Billy's smile was tinged with bitterness, and he looked much older than he ever had before.

"No," Jill said, thinking of Annan, with his infuriating ideas and beautiful eyes, "I don't suppose he would. But we love him anyway, don't we?"

Billy nodded, then glanced pointedly at the shower.

"You know, Jill, I may now, uh, be 'on the same team' as you, but I do have _some_ modesty."

Jill stared at him blankly for a moment before realising with a start and blushing furiously. 

"Oh – of course – sorry -" she made hastily for the exit but, on an afterthought, turned round and smiled. "I'm glad you felt you could trust me with – you know."

Billy raised an eyebrow, his hands half-way down to his top once again.

"Well, Jilly, it _was_ the only way I could see to stop you from kissing me. Desperate times call for desperate measures, huh?" And he gave Jill his best innocent smile.

Jill raised her own eyebrow and decided there was really no other response to such a statement but to leave. She was barely ten metres down the corridor, however, when she passed the Captain. Remembering Billy's words, she flushed and hastily put her head down and hurried to her quarters, deciding that at least on her own she avoid both causing any more problems or receiving any more confidences. She sat down at her desk, and a picture of a tall, dark-haired man in Starfleet uniform smiled up at her. With a sigh, she touched the frame, feeling a small surge of guilt for the man within it, despite his having been gone from her life for six long years.

"James," she said, looking at the frozen face of her husband, lost in the course of duty, "why can life never be simple?"

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**A/N:** Well, there we have it. The love triangles of the Quartermaster's Store are getting more and more complex... please tell me what you think. I hope people aren't too confused at the end of that chapter... I know I was when I wrote it! 


	9. Chapter IX: Target Misalignment

**A/N:** Right – all Malcolm this chapter, and boy is the tension rising. I fear if I keep this up then the rating will follow suit. Hope you enjoy!

To my ever-patient reviewers:

**firebirdgirl:** I think I may need a spider to help me sort out the plot I've ended up with! Thanks so much for reading.

**burrcat213:** Oh dear... first AS exam in the first week of May. Let's commiserate together! Hope this gives you some light relief (but not, of course, distraction!) from revision.

**Alelou:** Sheepish grin. I hope your addiction can survive my notoriously late postings. Thanks for reviewing, hope you enjoy the rest!

**Verity Kindle:** Glad you approve. And you want tension? You got tension...!

**_Note:_ **I was a bit concerned that people would be a bit prudish over the Billy development, but I'm glad that people's reactions to it were quite positive. There's quite an emotional roller-coaster in store for Billy... but then again, the same is true for the rest of the characters!

Now... go read! And above all else, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** If I owned _Enterprise_, the episodes would have been about three months apart, wouldn't they?!

**Chapter Nine**

**Target Misalignment**

It wasn't until the ensign tapped him on the shoulder that he even realised he had been speaking to him.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

Malcolm blinked slightly, then nodded.

"Yes – just daydreaming, that's all."

The ensign shot him a look to the effect that he could think of nothing more worrying than the head of the armoury _daydreaming_ whilst fiddling with a phase pistol, but wisely made no comment other than to say;

"I've finished the rota, sir, for the weapons training." He held it out. "I've sent messages out to all the crewmen involved, you should be getting your first one in," he glanced at his chronometer, "about fifteen minutes."

Reed nodded, and the ensign beat a hasty retreat – too hasty. Suspicious, he glanced down at the PADD which the ensign had handed him, and his worst fears were confirmed when he saw the combination of names at the top of the list: "0800 hours, Lieutenant Reed – Crewman Mackie". Just what did his crew think they were playing at? Or the Captain, for that matter?

The Captain had cornered him the day before, a slightly fanatical gleam in his eye.

_"Well, Malcolm, you know you're always going on about extra security?"_ He had asked, and Malcolm had immediately felt alarm bells ring – red alert, or at least yellow. The Captain had regained some of his confidence – not to mention his recklessness – now that the Expanse and the Xindi were almost a year behind them. _"Well, I've been talking to Crewman Derner,"_ (at this the Captain's eyes had taken on a slightly different gleam, and Malcolm had nodded, remembering the tall red-head who had gone on _that_ away mission) _"and she told me that the only training she or anyone in the same team as her ever got was a single day's course on basic defence – including one hour on the old Mark Two pistols."_

It was quite true, Malcolm had agreed. Upon entering the Expanse, most of the crew had received extra self-defence training but, working on limited time and in dangerous conditions, the crew in the extreme below-decks had been overlooked – after all, what would the Xindi want with seven repairers of torn zips? There was a more practical reason, of course – whilst the MACOs' job was to protect the crew and the ship, the Quartermaster's team was busy furnishing _Enterprise_ with everything it would need in the Expanse, from spare parts to more weapons and even checking the supply of ration packs. The time had simply not been available. It was, however, available _now_, and following the incident on the planet of the corrupt and naïve Clendavins, Captain Archer had clearly decided that it was time to remedy the situation and provide the crewmen of the Quartermaster's store with adequate security training – on Malcolm's time.

_"One day,"_ Archer had said, and Malcolm had groaned internally at the realisation that the Captain was trying out another of his inspirational speeches – he seemed to have recovered the knack for them since the Expanse – _"one day all crewmembers – from captains to crewmen – will have the opportunity to step onto new worlds. When that day comes, they need to be prepared."_ Archer had slapped him on the back, smiling widely. _"I know you'll make a great teacher, Malcolm. Report back on their progress this time next week, ok?"_ And with that the Captain had departed, humming slightly, leaving Malcolm Reed cursing the day Archer had ever thought to talk to the Vulcans about gazelles and so get a taste for public speaking.

"Um – Lieutenant?"

Malcolm started to attention and mentally scolded himself – it was the second time his attention had wandered in as many minutes, never a good sign – and stiffened when he realised that the person to break him out of his reverie this time was not his slightly jumpy junior officer but Henny Mackie, her hands clasped nervously behind her back and her hair pulled into a messy but practical ponytail at the nape of her neck. Hardly thinking as he led her into the area used for target practice, he nodded approvingly at her hairstyle.

"I'm glad I won't have to break into my stash of hair bands for you, Crewman." He said – quite truthfully, for her kept a small box of elastic bands in his office should any of his female crewmembers have the short-sightedness to enter the armoury with their hair down. He did not, after all, want any messy incidents involving any combination of hair and fire, as had famously occurred with one of engineering's more glamorous crew – she had been forced to wear a wig for months afterwards.

"Indeed, sir."

Reed glanced up at Mackie's cool tone and repressed a sigh. This had been exactly the reason why he had not wanted to take the task of training Henny. It had been two weeks since their somewhat uncomfortable conversation (from which, Malcolm made no attempt at deceiving himself, he had emerged looking like an over-reacting cad), and every time he had passed Crewman Mackie in the corridor – it seemed to occur with noticeable frequency – she had looked away. Better than Crewman Manning's reaction, which had been to glare at him every time. No doubt the entire Quartermaster's team now held a grudge against him – one good reason not to go anywhere near them with phase pistols whilst they could still claim to be inexperienced enough to 'accidentally' hit the instructor with a beam set to stun.

"Crewman," he said, deciding that, considering his profession, it would probably be quite apt to bite the bullet, "I understand that you may not _want_ to talk to me, but we do both have a job to do, and it would greatly help mine if we could at least be civil to each other."

Mackie opened her mouth, and for a moment Malcolm was quite sure she was going to tell him precisely where he could stick his phase pistol, but after a pause she nodded curtly.

"Yes sir." Her tone was still cool, but not quite so much as before. Malcolm shrugged. He could live with a compromise. After all, she _had_ laughed at him, and Starfleet officer or no he could not entirely ignore the injury to his male ego.

"Good." He locked the phase pistol's charge pack into place and handed it to her, noting the slight hesitation before she took it. She held it up, and seemed to inspect it before nodding. She glanced at the target, currently hovering peacefully somewhere at eye level on the opposite wall.

"Alright." She said. "Point and shoot, right?"

"That would be the general idea, yes." Malcolm replied, raising an eyebrow, but she smiled slightly, straightening her arm and shutting one eye slightly as she went to aim. Malcolm closed his eyes in mild despair, feeling the common exasperation of a professional at the sight of an amateur mistake. "Open your _eyes_, please, Crewman. _Both_ of them."

"Oh." Henny – _Crewman Mackie_, he mentally corrected himself – smiled sheepishly and turned back to the target, carefully keeping both eyes open. "Right." She tensed her arm and pulled the trigger. A beam of light – completely harmless, for Malcolm had manually set the pistol to training levels, which meant that anyone who got in the way of the beam would receive nothing more than a slight static shock – shot out of the pistol and missed the target by inches. Mackie pursed her lips, pulled the pistol up once more, and made the shot again. And again. And again. Each and every time, she shot wide, and Malcolm knew exactly what the problem was – and how to fix it. He was, however, rather reluctant to employ such – well, _close_ measures.

"You trained on the old Mark Fours, didn't you?"

"Yes sir." Henny glanced at the target, still hovering in the air, happily unblemished by shots. "I know I'm still accommodating for the phase shift – I can't seem to change it, though."

"Hmm." Malcolm said, then added without thinking: "Well, you managed to hit those rocks, didn't you?"

Henny's expression – and her entire body – stiffened suddenly, and Malcolm realised exactly what he had said.

"Damn – I didn't mean..." he trailed off, shaking his head. Then, deciding that distraction was the better part of valour, he stepped behind her, mimicking her pose and grasping her wrist. She started, and Malcolm felt a small surge of triumph. Distraction accomplished.

"What are you doing?" She asked, but made no move to step away from his grasp. She was, however, slightly red around the cheeks, a fact that Reed noted with a slight flush of his own.

"Adjusting your grip." She raised an eyebrow and he gave a brief smile. "Believe me, this is the easiest way."

"Hmm." Henny sounded dubious. "I bet you enjoyed training the Captain how to use a phase pistol." She glanced at him, their cheeks almost touching as she turned. "Or is there a different method for male crewmembers, hmm?"

Malcolm snorted, and jerked her hand up into a firing position. She let out a hiss of surprise, but allowed him to make slight accommodations to her grip and her aim. After a few moments he forgot the awkwardness of the situation as he became engrossed in his task, rolling her arm over slightly so that her shoulder was in a direct line with her target. With a nod of satisfaction, he stepped back.

"Fire away."

She did so, and Malcolm smiled slightly as six out of her next ten shots hit the target, the rest missing by a far smaller margin than before.

"Well done," he said, glancing at his chronometer, "shall we say same time next week? Try and get some practice in the meantime."

"Aye sir." She nodded, handed back the phase pistol, and exited, leaving Malcolm to muse what had just occurred. Part of the reason, he admitted to himself, that he had found the rumours of their supposed love affair so very frustrating was that, far apart from any concerns for his reputation (the Captain, at least, hadn't believed the rumours, though he had been forced to endure several days of jokes about them), a very small part of him rather liked the idea of them being _true_, especially now, with the memory of her hip brushing his, of her arm and shoulder moulding under his grip. He shook his head and dismantled the phase pistol, knowing full well that as much as his brain insisted that he in no way whatsoever found the young (_too_ young) crewman attractive, his less rational body was telling him something very different.

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**A/N:** Go on... review, and I promise I'll update soon. Not that I'm bribing anyone here... :) Hope you enjoyed it!


	10. Chapter X: The Quartermaster Ashore

Chapter Ten

**A/N:** #Hides as fellow readers and writers throw stones at her for being a very very bad girl and not updating#

You will be glad to hear that I am now through the weeks of pain and exhaustion that is exam time and am ready to finish this story. I have got to do so in the next four weeks since I am going to China (!) next month and will be incommunicado for a while. So... I promise I won't leave you hanging as the story hots up (even more).

Enjoy it!

**Thanks to all my reviewers**, you are my conscience in getting me to update! And yes, **Verity Kindle**, there will be more Malcolm angst... #manic laugh#

**Disclaimer:** Let's face it, if I owned _Enterprise_, the episodes would all have been two months apart.

**Chapter Ten**

**The Quartermaster Ashore**

Despite the surprises, ill-experiences and frankly astonishing revelations of the past few days, Jill Derner entered the store with a new spring in her step that morning. The ship was in orbit around a warp-capable world: a world with a varied assortment of beaches, mountains, and luxury hotels. The Captain had given her the not unwelcome task of informing the Quartermaster's Team that they, along with the command crew and the cook team, had first offer for three days of shore leave in any area of their choice.

_"Crewman,"_ he had said, catching up with her in the corridor the evening before, _"I've been checking the records and it seems I'm right in thinking that the Quartermaster's Team has __**never**__ had leave during missions?"_

Jill had paused for a moment in thought, and realised that he was quite right – the only breaks the team had ever received had been on Earth, between missions. They hadn't gone off-ship when _Enterprise_ had stopped at Risa in the first year of their voyage, since the crew had, oddly enough, still wanted clean clothes to wear when they got back. She had said something to this effect to the Captain, who had started slightly before giving a chagrined smile.

_"Right. It's just that we've found a planet on the starcharts about twenty light-years away that looks appropriate. Beaches, busy cities, that sort of thing. It's been a while since the crew's had a proper break."_

_"You're a very considerate commanding officer,"_ Jill had replied, giving him, to her later shame, her most charming smile.

_"Not as considerate as James,"_ he had said, then stopped, looking awkward. _"I'm sorry, I didn't -"_

_"Don't worry." _She had said quickly, though she didn't meet his gaze. _"Shore leave sounds good."_

It certainly _did_ sound good when she relayed the Captain's information – with a few embellishments – to her friends and colleagues in the Store, though she made sure she did not spend too long looking in either Annan or Billy's direction.

"Beaches, you say?" Miranda's eyes widened, and she gave a glance which Jenny deemed suspiciously over-eager in Tiller's direction. Tiller coughed, his already ruddy cheeks flushing.

"Hmm, bit of sun sounds good." He said after a pause, earning him a beaming smile from Miranda.

"I don't know, the town sounds better." Henny smiled, but Jill noted that there was a hint of nervousness in both her expression and her tone. "You know, hit the bars." Yes, Jill silently agreed – and drown a few ghosts.

"Search out a few specialist establishments," Billy said, with a raised eyebrow and a knowing grin in Jill's direction. She looked away, a little awkward, and turned to the only silent person in the room to avoid dwelling on his suddenly frozen expression.

"Annan?"

Annan looked up, one slim eyebrow raised, looking more like a Vulcan than ever.

"It should be passable." He said after a pause, and Jill rolled her eyes. High praise from Annan.

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"You aren't doing very well at this whole getting drunk thing, Trip." Malcolm remarked dryly, glancing at the off-duty engineer over the top of his almost-empty glass. It had been Trip who had suggested that they find the cheapest watering hole on the planet and get roaring drunk, but he seemed too busy gazing morosely into his glass to actually consume any of the liquid inside it. Malcolm couldn't really say he blamed him. Finest Scotch whisky the local ale most certainly was not. He suspected, however, that the alcohol was not the cause of Trip's melancholy disposition. He further suspected, however, that he himself might need a little more of the said alcohol inside of him before broaching the subject of Trip's reverie. If he was even the right person to do so in the first place.

"Yeah." Trip blinked into his glass, before glancing up and giving a hopeless smile. "Heck, Malcolm -"

"I know." Malcolm nodded curtly, refilling Trip's glass – not that it needed it. "It's alright."

"No it ain't." Trip said softly, and Malcolm gave a sigh, though of sympathy rather than exasperation. Not even quite sympathy either, for sympathy implied understanding, and how could he even claim to understand how it would feel to have a daughter thrust upon him against your will and then have her taken away again just as casually by the whims of fate?

"Trip." He paused. "T'Pol is staying in the local Scientific Research Institute. I don't mind if you go."

Trip frowned, not looking at Malcolm, as though hoping that he might discern in the depths of his glass an omen which told him yay or nay. The choice, however, was bitterly his.

"You think I should?"

"Yes."

"Alright." Trip rose, slapping a handful of the local currency onto the table. "I'm paying." He gave a rueful smile. "Your reward for putting up with a miserable bastard all night."

With that parting shot he walked, slowly but at least with aim (rather than the senseless musings which had filled the last half hour) out of the bar, leaving Malcolm to wonder why the only place in the universe which made truly good alcohol was at the tip of a small island inhabited by men wearing kilts. He also wondered why it was always the innocent – both the Elizabeth Tuckers, Henny Mackie – who suffered when there was a huge excess of swollen, corrupt men as they had encountered on the planet Clendavin.

He raised his glass, musing:

"The universe is a funny old place, I suppose." Upon noting that this philosophic announcement was met with by curious and even hostile stares by his neighbours, he downed the drink and followed Trip's path out of the alien door.

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He had not been five minutes out of the drinking establishment when he encountered Henny Mackie, and when she smiled broadly on seeing him he told himself that his flush was due to the alcohol he had consumed and nothing else.

"Lieutenant!" She glanced around the dark alleyway. "I've been looking everywhere for a friendly face. I've been rather deserted."

"Indeed?" He too glanced around the alleyway, though possibly with a little more suspicion than she had. He disliked spaces such as this – enclosed, with few exits and even less people (he would always support the old adage of there being safety in numbers) – but the guide who had shown them to the allegedly most respectable local watering hole earlier in the evening had shown them only one route from their hotel, via this alley. It was for this reason, he asserted silently, that he drew deliberately closer to the young crew woman. "You shouldn't be out here alone. It could be dangerous."

Henny raised an eyebrow.

"Yes Dad." She caught his eye and began to giggle, though Malcolm noticed that she put her hand through his pointedly proffered arm without comment.

"You may laugh, but -"

He never got a chance to explain to her why she should stop laughing, for that very moment something compact but heavy struck the back of his head, and, since he felt her fall beside him in his last moments of consciousness, hers too. Neither of them would be doing much laughing for the time being.

888

"This sort of thing happens far too often for my own taste," he groaned, rubbing the back of his head as he sat up, ignoring the fact that almost every nerve in his body was insisting that he would like nothing better than to lie back down and submit to sleep once more. Crewman Mackie was already sitting up, however, and he convinced himself – for the sake of duty, if nothing else – to rise so he could inspect the back of her head.

"Good morning, Lieutenant." She said, rubbing her eyes, and wincing as he pressed the spot where her head had been struck. She gave him a brief smile. "Knew I shouldn't have drunk so much last night. Damn hangover can't have anything to do with being hit over the head by a baseball bat, can it?"

He snorted, gently pulling back her hair. A large bruise was rising, but the skin was intact and there was no blood to be seen. She seemed to predict his diagnosis, for she, too, stood up.

"There's nothing wrong with me." She put her hands in his shoulders. "Your turn to sit down, you look awful."

"Thanks," he retorted, lowering himself to the floor and attempting to deny the fact that he met its solid flatness with great relief, "fortunately for you I am too much of a gentleman to return that compliment."

She didn't laugh, but he felt the tickle of her slow, shaky breath on the back of his head. He flinched slightly as she parted the hair at the back of his head, and felt instantly ashamed, for she had not moved when he had done so to her.

"Sorry," they both said together, and Malcolm grimaced. Her fingers hovered over his skin for a little longer before she made her assessment.

"Just a bruise for you too. Let's hope that your skull is too thick for them to have fractured it." There was a tightness in her voice at the word 'them', and Reed turned, frowning.

"Have you seen them?" It was only now, as the final vestiges of sleep – and, yes, a hangover – left him that he fully realised the situation they were in. Shore leave was three days long, and it might not be until the final day that anybody realised they were missing, since he for one had made no definite plans to meet anyone. He looked around, cursing as he noted that the room they were in was nothing more than a sealed concrete cube, with what looked like an impregnable metal door with one small peep-hole. Had the containment been a technological one, he might have been able to over-ride it, but he was far too aware of the fact that neither of them had quite the right build to even attempt breaking through the door. Add to that the fact that their kidnap seemed a fairly arbitrary one, for they had never been to the planet before –

"I have." Henny interrupted his increasingly concerned musings. "It's the aliens – from the planet." She shakily settled herself next to him on the floor. "The Clendavins. The two that I – I thought I'd killed."

"You recognise them?"

He knew he had said the wrong thing as soon as she turned her oddly hollow eyes onto him.

"I thought I'd killed them. Of course I recognise them."

Reed nodded. It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that they should have survived – they were hit by the rocks, after all, rather than a certainly deadly laser beam – but Clendavin was a pre-warp world, and it had taken the _Enterprise_ a week to reach the planet for shore leave by Warp 5.

"They must have had help." He muttered, remembering that before making contact with the planet's surface they had picked up several other warp trails – the Clendavins were no strangers to technologically advanced visitors. He glanced at his companion, who, clothed as she was in a loose summer dress (of the sort, he mentally added, over which his father used to have heart attacks about Madeline wearing), was beginning to shiver. As far as Malcolm could tell, she was scared, tired, and still recovering from the away mission the week before. She could easily have been mistaken, since the inhabitants of the planet they were currently on looked fairly similar, and even for him one alien was much like another. Then he glanced at her again, and remembered her determination and level-headedness in that terrible cave, and he knew he had done her a disservice by not even giving her the credit of recognising a person when she saw them.

"Lieutenant?" She said, after a long silence. He looked up. She was biting her lip to keep from shivering, and he hastily pulled his own jacket off and placed it around her shoulders. She laughed nervously. "That was needlessly gallant."

He inclined his head.

"Do you expect anything less?"

"No." Her face crinkled into a smile, but then it faded, and she looked him straight in the eye. He wished he had the will to look away, for he knew what she was going to ask, and he also knew that no lie would pass her. "They're going to find us, aren't they?"

He was saved answering by a sound which put more fear into him than her question had. The door clanged open, and a low, rough voice spoke from behind them.

"Stand up." Then, as they both rose slowly, a mottled hand reached out and grabbed Henny. Malcolm started, but the face of the Clendavin freedom fighter – a foot or so taller and at least a stone heavier than Malcolm even if he hadn't been carrying a gun – twisted into a smirk. "Not you."

The alien twisted away, and Henny Mackie's cry of alarm was lost as the door slammed, leaving Malcolm alone in the cell and feeling that he ought to have been far more _gallant_ than he had been.

888

**A/N:** Well, it's a Malcolm fic, so it had to involve a kidnap! Please press that purple button and tell me what you thought. Reviews make my creative juices flow faster!


	11. Chapter XI: Losing Bearing

**A/N:** Right, chapter eleven of this saga of love, kidnap and washing machines. What else do you expect? Please tell me what you think!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Enterprise_, but I do own a set of Star Trek factfiles which only just I rescued from being taken to the car boot sale by my Mum. Trekkers are so misunderstood...

**Chapter Eleven – Losing Bearing**

It was a beautiful, silent sunrise. Miranda Heron sighed in the quiet peace of it all – for once, there was no smell of grease on her clothes, no clatter of sewing machines in her ears. And she was in good, accustomed company, sitting beside a friend she had known for years and staring out at the sunrise. Yes, she was very much at peace.

Which was why it came as something of a surprise to her when Ryan Tiller cleared his throat, abruptly grabbed her hand, and said;

"Marry me, Miranda."

Miranda had been in the process of taking another sip of her cool, alien cocktail and so spluttered in a most unladylike manner. She gasped and coughed for a moment before she was able to respond.

"I – _what?_ Have you taken leave of your mind, Ryan Andrew Tiller?"

Her companion shuffled uncomfortably and released her hand, his face drawn into a frown as he gazed out at the sea and the red reflection of the rising sun upon it.

"I just thought, M'randa -"

"That's the problem!" Heron interrupted him, standing up to brush herself down. "You don't think!" Whilst she avoided his gaze by glancing at the sea, it struck her that the waves themselves were becoming far more disturbed, and the once-clear waters turgid from sand and stones brought up by the current. Rather like her simple life, suddenly disturbed by this... _whim_ of Ryan's. What she didn't utter, even to herself, was that were she a braver woman she would have been doing the asking. She sighed, and turned to him. He had risen as well, looking bewildered and ever-so-slightly fierce with the sand and salt-spray flecking his bushy eyebrows and grey beard. "Can't we just leave well alone, Ryan? Why d'you need to fix what isn't even broke?"

"Brok_en_." He corrected her, his lips twitching slightly. Miranda had hoped for this reaction; it was strange to think that the burly, introverted repair-man had an abiding love for books and could never bear to hear his precious English language abused; making a deliberate grammar mistake for him to correct was always a sure way to brighten him from any sulk. She laced her arm through his and began to guide him towards the surf.

"Come on now, you. Let's not get silly ideas at our age."

"Silly?"

"Oh, you know what I mean..." But he never had an opportunity to ask her to explain what she meant, for at that moment they were interrupted by running footsteps and they turned to see a gasping Catherine Manning standing behind them.

"Your communicators weren't on!" She exclaimed, at Miranda's slight look of disapproval at being so rudely disturbed. Catherine's eyes raked the pair of them, and her lips parted slightly at the sight of them both in bathing costumes. Ryan removed his hand from Miranda's arm with great dignity and drew himself up as proudly as is possibly when wearing tartan swimming trunks.

"No. And what d'you want, running up to us like the devil's chasin' you?"

Catherine didn't respond for a second, but then it burst out;

"Henny's gone missing! Lieutenant Reed too. She didn't turn up in the morning after we'd been out, and when we told the _Enterprise_ they contacted everyone on the planet but couldn't find the Lieutenant. They checked and his bed hadn't been slept in. Everyone's been called back to the ship." She stopped, then added tremulously, "They think they've been kidnapped!"

Miranda and Ryan exchanged glances. Ryan put out a steadying hand on Miranda's shoulder but at Catherine's steadily paling face put one on hers as well.

"In which case," he said, with a gruffness which did not belie to the younger woman his worry and fear though they were plain to the older, "she couldn't have a better companion, could she? Come on. We'd best get back to the ship."

888

He had been waiting for two hours, half-fearing that what awaited when the doors re-opened (and they _must_ re-open) could only be the worst that he imagined. Roughly an hour after Mackie had been taken, a small slot which he had not seen before at the base of the wall by the door opened, and a hunk of blue bread (at least, he thought it was bread; at any rate, it looked better than raw 'digger meat') and a large plastic container of water was pushed through. At the sight of the unexpected water a thirst he had not even been aware of rose up in him and before he knew it he had drunk a third of the surprisingly clean, cool water. After beginning to tip the cup for the second time, however, he stopped, lowered it, and placed it once more on the floor. He then turned around and sat down with his back firmly to it. Henny would need the water.

Just as he thought he was going to mad from the thirst, the uncertainty, and the carafe of water just behind him, the door swung open and some, if not all of his fears were realised. Henrietta Mackie was pushed into the cell and she fell to floor at once, her face down turned. Malcolm was surprised, however, for before the door clanged shut once more two objects were thrown in after her – a roll of bandage and a plastic bottle filled with, by the smell of it, antiseptic.

"Oh, God," he murmured, kneeling on the floor and pulling the crewman up to a sitting position beside him. He was concerned to find that she leant against him with her eyes half-closed rather than holding her own weight, but after a moment she looked up and gave him a tremulous glance.

"I'm sorry, sir." She said, and he let out a laugh which, even to his own ears, sounded dull and flat. Her hair was matted with dried blood and there were bruises on her cheeks, which were white.

"You're sorry?" He knew well enough from his own experience that guilt was a frequent response to events over which one had no control – even torture – but that did not make the sensation of the girl by his side _apologising_ for the beating she had been given any less cold a one. Unless, he thought, she had something to apologise for. He pressed his lips together. He had to ask. "Crewman... did they... ask anything?"

She breathed out shakily, then shook her head with a cough. He noted with a shudder of revulsion that the jagged, weeping scar on her forehead had clear, precise edges; it had been cut surgically and carefully. But why?

"They did, but... I didn't..." She opened her mouth to continue further, but he squeezed her arm.

"Alright. _I'm_ sorry. Where does... it hurt?"

She shot him a look, though Malcolm sensed that even though they were locked in a cell god-only-knew-where, there was amusement beneath the exasperation. She gave a small, if shaky, smile.

"Mostly everywhere. But... my arm..."

Malcolm nodded. He had noticed that she was holding her right arm fairly gingerly, and he suspected he knew what the matter was. Hoping nonetheless that he was mistaken, he reached out and gently pressed at the shoulder joint, feeling at the tips of his fingers the loosely-hanging bone and inflammation which he had expected. His unfortunate patient winced, but made no complaint, and he felt a growing respect for her. Why the hell hadn't she been given a better role than crewman in the Quartermaster's store?

"Tell me about your family." He said abruptly, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour in this case. The dislocated shoulder needed to be pushed back in, and as far as he was concerned it would be far better for Henny Mackie if she was not aware of the fact until the very last minute. As he took her hand and straightened her arm he heard her chuckle.

"Odd conversation starter for a man who never talks about his."

"I beg your pardon?" Though he was concentrating on the shoulder, this statement made him start. She spoke as if she knew him as well as Trip, or the Captain did. She gave another short laugh. Odd, that she should spend so much time finding humour in situations where there really was none.

"As I believe I've said before, we _do_ talk about you lot. Most of the downstairs lot heard all about your birthday cake fiasco – you know, Phlox being the one to figure out your favourite food from your bromilin allergy." She paused. "On the other hand, you're lucky to have a Captain like Archer. I haven't met many who'd go to such lengths just for a crew-member's birthday."

"He's your Captain too." Malcolm murmured, deciding it was safer not to reflect on what else the 'downstairs lot' knew about him if they knew the very name of one of his allergies. He stiffened his arm and began to count down from five.

"Yes, I know, but there isn't the same sort of -"

Malcolm pushed the arm with as much force as he could muster and this time, Henny did not remain silent. The arm, however, was back in place, and though she was now paler than ever and shaking, she shot Malcolm a relieved look.

"Thanks. I was waiting for you to get on with it."

Malcolm shook his head.

"You knew?"

"Of course. You got a terribly guilty look on your face when you asked me about my family."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows.

"You're braver than I am, then." She flushed at his words, and for a moment he felt that his bluntness had been inappropriate – she _was_ still his subordinate, after all – but then he remembered where they were, and what they were doing there. Or _not_ doing there, to be precise. They weren't escaping. And, if the injuries that their captors had inflicted on the young woman beside him were anything to go by, nor were they entirely safe.

"They told me this was revenge." She said suddenly, and he looked up from examining the plastic bottle which the aliens had thrown in after her.

"I beg your pardon?" Whilst she spoke, he slowly began to unwind the length of bandage, mentally assessing where it would be best put to use. Her cut forehead was the first priority; then her arm, which ought to be secured in some way to prevent further damage, and he really ought to check her ribs in case any were broken...

"The – the one in charge," Henny started, and Malcolm (who had been momentarily distracted by the half-mortifying, half terribly tempting thought of having to examine the crewman's torso for cracked ribs) pulled together his tattered concentration to listen, "said that these -" with her good arm she indicated the cut on her forehead and the dislocated arm "- were the injuries he received when the rocks fell on him and knocked him out. He said -" at this she let out a sob, which she quickly swallowed with a shake of her head as Malcolm moved convulsively to comfort her "- he said that the injuries suffered by his two – companions – would be... awarded at a later date."

Malcolm leant back on his heels, horrified. This was no random torture; this was planned, mechanical punishment. And he was afraid that the shaking body beside him could only take so much of it. He looked at the bandage in his hands, suddenly disgusted to be handling anything given to them by their captors.

"So why have they given us – _this_?"

Henny looked at the bandage, biting her lip.

"He – he also said that he wanted... not to mis-treat us." Her face contorted with anger and Malcolm was sure she had lost any sympathy she had once had for the three Clendavin men for whose death she had thought herself responsible. "He said I should treat my injuries whilst I could in order to – prepare for the next time." Then, to Malcolm's amazement, her voice took on a wry tone. "You might find it comforting that he said they didn't actually want to kill us."

Malcolm shook his head. There were too many questions in his mind to ask Henny right now; more than anything she needed rest. But _why_ – apart from revenge, which seemed a fairly trivial cause – had the Clendavin's taken then captive? And how had they made their way here when, according to all of _Enterprise_'s records, the Clendavin's had no warp drive and, more importantly of all, no ports at which non-native vessels could land? There was one last question, however, that he had to ask before bandaging her injuries and seeing that she took as much of the food and water that she could muster.

"Do your... ribs hurt at all?"

His hesitancy must have shown on his face, for she laughed, albeit weakly. (He pushed away the thought that her laugh was surely one of the most comforting things he had ever encountered in the midst of a hostage situation, deeming it an irresponsible one to have locked up alone in a small room).

"No, Lieutenant. They were very methodical with their... ministrations."

He nodded. It gave him no comfort at all to think that even if she had escaped this time with 'ministrations' affecting only her arm and her forehead, there was every possibility that she would not be so lucky the next times. Unless he could prevent those 'next times' from occurring, of course.

"Henny," he said, an entirely different thought occurring to him, "I really think that in a situation like this we can drop the formalities, hmm?"

Henny smiled, the edges of her eyes crinkling slightly.

"Alright – Malcolm."

A ridiculous suggestion, of course, and one that the Malcolm Reed of three years ago would never have dreamed to suggest even with a fellow lieutenant, let alone a vastly younger crewman. On the other hand, the Malcolm Reed of three years ago had not experienced what he had. And if his time in the Expanse had taught him anything, it was that survival recognised no such thing as rank or formality.

He did not, however, say these things to Henny – he was not quite so changed as to communicate his emotions in such a candid manner, but instead said, in a tone rather rougher than he had meant to;

"Come on. I need to clean your forehead."

888

**A/N:** Well, Lieutenant Reed and Crewman Mackie seem to be in quite a pickle! I have the next chapter all ready... if you want it, that is? Purple button!!


	12. Chapter XII: Holding Hope

Chapter Twelve – Holding Hope

**A/N:** Hello all! Thanks for all your reviews:

**Verity Kindle:** Lol, I'm glad you're enjoying it. And yes they are a cute couple! Thanks also for the name of the 'ship. I'm afraid I don't have any drawings of them at the moment, but you'll be the first to know once I have – after all, can't let your love of the 'ship go to waste, can we?

**burrcat213:** Sadly the tartan swimming trunks are based on real life... my Dad's!

**grumpyelaine:** Thanks for reviewing! Hope you enjoy chapter twelve.

**Alelou:** The 'ultimate Malcolm fantasy', that made me laugh. The Clendavins were inspired by a whole year of studying Communism at AS... from what I've read it tends to result in a few powerful (and thus provided for) people and lots of rather mistreated ones... it seemed interesting to bring this idea in to a fic and see what might happen if those mistreated individuals got the chance to seek revenge. They are very, very bitter towards the Universe in general... poor Henny and Malcolm!

**firebirdgirl:** What I love about having so many 'original' characters is that everyone likes different ones! Poor old Tiller... do enjoy the next chapter, and thanks for reviewing!

**General Kunama:** Lol, thanks for that. Enjoy more shameless fluff/romantic tension in today's update...

**johnf:** Nice to see a new reader! Glad to hear you're enjoying it. As for your little niggle, well, I'm afraid I didn't think very deeply about it...! Hangs head in shame.

**Chapter Twelve – Holding Hope**

Billy Cortan was not in a particularly composed mood as he walked into the Store that morning, partly due to an early-morning conversation he had had with Annan – a conversation made rather the more frustrating for Billy due to the fact that Annan was taking the sweetest time possible to dress.

_"Aren't you worried about Henny at all?"_ Billy had asked, after Annan had commented on his tossing and turning that night. Annan had raised a perfect, Vulcanesque eyebrow whilst shamelessly striding across the room stark naked to pick up his shorts.

_"She's with Lieutenant Reed. He'll look after her. Anyway, it will be a good situation for them to... get to know each other better."_

_"You really are beyond words sometimes, Annan!"_ Billy had exclaimed, turning his face away only half out of anger and half due to the havoc that Annan was wreaking on his self-control. _"I doubt even Malcolm Reed could be much help in protecting her unarmed, and what if they aren't __**together**__?"_ The thought of his friend alone and in the hands of strangers who wished her harm was almost more than he could bear. It seemed cruel and pointless that after all that the group had survived together during five years in deep space, Henny was now apparently lost after a single night's revelry on shore leave. Annan, however, seemed entirely insensible to this attitude. On receiving only silence in reply, Billy had snapped, rising from his bed and tossing Annan his lazily discarded uniform. _"And put some bloody clothes on!" _And with that he had stalked out, leaving a supremely unconcerned Annan to finish his morning's toilette.

Billy was therefore not in the best frame of mind to deal with a puffy-eyed Jill as he stepped into the room. She rose on seeing him, and approached. He shuffled awkwardly, and though it was probably unfair to Jill, he wondered briefly whether she saw him in any different light now that she knew his great 'secret'. It was ironic enough that he had managed to keep what he thought patently obvious from the others for the entirety of their mission, but even more ironic that he should only reveal the truth on almost being propositioned by a woman he saw as his most sisterly friend.

"Billy – can we talk? I really need someone to..." She trailed off, glancing around. "Everything, with Henny... I thought after what we talked about you'd..."

"I'm sorry." Billy tightened his jaw. He had enough guilt and worry of his own to deal with. There was shame, too, irrational though it was. Perhaps he was ashamed that he was still worrying about his own, petty concerns when Henny was in danger. "I don't think I'd be... the right person to talk to."

"Right." Jill nodded, and Billy realised all at once from her stricken expression that he said the wrong thing, made the wrong gesture. He had been so concerned about going out of his own comfort zone that he had disregarded just how far Jill was out of hers. Before he could take back his words, however, Jill turned for the door. "I've just got to..."

She was gone. Billy groaned. Miranda, who had been sitting at her sewing machine, unnoticed by Billy, spoke up.

"Now, I know this isn't really the time..."

"It isn't." A detached part of Billy wondered if he was turning into Annan this morning; taking out his ill-humour on anyone who spoke to him. Miranda continued unabated.

"...but I think that girl has a bit of a soft-spot for you..." Billy resisted the urge to groan once more. Not this again. "...and I know you have one for her, so -"

"For God's sake, Miranda!" He interrupted her. "I'm bloody gay!"

Billy had never really understood the oxymoronical term, 'a deafening silence', but he would have sworn on his mother's life that this was exactly what filled the Quartermaster's Store as he turned, heart hammering furiously, to face the door which had just swished open. Annan was staring at him, disgust on his pale, handsome face.

888

"Right. All done." Henny resisted the urge to sigh with relief as Lieutenant Reed – Malcolm – sat back on his heels, the last length of bandage now wound around her head. The antiseptic, or whatever it was the Clendavins had provided, had felt painful enough for Henny to grudgingly believe in its necessity, but she had been loath to showing how much it hurt. Far apart from attempting to retain what little pride she had left after being kidnapped, beaten, and thrown into a six-by-six cell with her superior officer wearing only her skimpiest dress, Henny also did not want to worry the Lieutenant any more than he needed. She had learnt enough about him through the ship's grapevine, and then through her experience on Clendavia with him, to know that he found any situation in which he did not have complete control highly distressing – especially where the safety of a member of the _Enterprise_ crew was concerned, be they Crewman or Captain.

"Thanks." She said, flashing him a smile which she did not truly feel. He looked bemused, but at least that was better than the abject guilt she had seen painted on his face when she had been tossed back into the cell an hour earlier.

"You're shivering." He said suddenly, and with a start Henny realised that he was right. She wrapped her arms around herself, gritting her teeth as she remembered that she had been wearing Malcolm's jacket when the aliens collected her for 'discussions', and that it had not returned with her. For want of little else to do, she studied her companion. There were dark rings under his eyes and his hair – usually so neat and tidy – had finally rebelled and was sticking up hither and thither. Henny wondered blankly how bad _she_ must look in comparison.

"You're shivering too," she said, and then almost laughed. They were sitting two feet apart as if afraid of one another, and yet the very basic survival training they had both been given had to been to conserve – and so share – as much body heat as possible in potentially dangerous situations. Well, Henny had the idea that it had gone beyond the 'potentially' dangerous.

It seemed that Malcolm had stumbled upon the same thought, for he shimmied across to her and held his arms open with the air of one shortly to be martyred.

"Come on with you, then." He said, and Henny raised an eyebrow.

"You don't need to make it sound as if it's such an unpleasant prospect to you, Mr Reed." Nevertheless, she leant into him, and placed her own arms around his body. She swallowed slightly as she did so. Now she understood why it was such good survival training; to hold onto the only friendly body near in a grim situation could provide far more than physical warmth. The very basic need – shared by all animals, even humans, Henny mused – for physical contact as a form of contact was often forgotten in the more 'professional' world.

Reed chuckled at her words, and she felt the rumble of the laugh in his chest. She could also feel, however, the sudden tautness of his back muscles, and knew that he was finding their current position – far from comforting – excruciatingly awkward. It didn't help that they were exactly the same height; she couldn't see his expression without leaning back.

"Pity you aren't a bit taller," she said, for want of anything else to say. Without thinking she started to draw small circles on his back, but he stiffened even further at that and she desisted. "Then we wouldn't keep knocking noses."

She could hear the raised eyebrow in his voice, even if she couldn't see it.

"Or you could be shorter." Now it was her turn to laugh.

"I'm average. _You're_ the one who has the height issues here."

He coughed.

"I'll have you know," he said, with great dignity, "that five foot five is quite a respectable height."

Henny snorted, but winced as her arm twinged with pain. The problem with being in such close quarters with someone as observant as Malcolm Reed, however, meant that he picked up on it immediately.

"Are you alright?"

Henny nodded, but collided with his chin.

"Yes. Sorry, sir. Malcolm." She resisted the urge to shake her head in exasperation due to the potential collisions it would cause.

They were silent for a while, and Henny realised that Malcolm's posture was slowly relaxing. Neither of them were shivering anymore, either.

"Was that why you became an Armoury Officer?" She asked, and he shifted slightly. She loosened her arms slightly.

"Excuse me?"

Henny smiled slightly. He knew _exactly_ what she meant. Then again, she would probably have felt that he had let her down if he had not given an evasive answer at first. He was, as Miranda had often said, an odd one. Then Henny realised that she was thinking of her friends in the past tense, as though she would never see them again, and she hastily elaborated in order to avoid thinking of such a possibility.

"The height thing. Did it make you feel you had something to prove?"

Malcolm was silent, and Henny worried for a moment that she had insulted him. When he spoke again, however, she realised that he had simply been weighing up his response.

"I think perhaps I did feel I had something to prove. But maybe not about my height." He paused, before adding, in a lighter tone; "I hope you don't subscribe to the John Steinbeck view of 'little guys'."

Henny snorted at his attempted American accent based, no doubt, on that of one Commander Tucker.

"_Of Mice and Men_? You've read it?"

"Of course. Required reading for every student passing through the British educational system." He paused. "More's the pity..."

They fell silent once more. Henny, in the midst of all this talk of high schools and set books, felt suddenly very far from home. It did not help that at just that moment, as she was about to ask Malcolm if he had ever felt homesick whilst locked in an alien cell and if so how to deal with it, the lights went out. Despite herself, she jumped at the sudden transition into darkness, and she felt the arms around her tighten slightly.

"Look's like it's time to get some rest, then." Malcolm said softly, and she nodded. They lay down, side by side, and Henny closed her eyes. She persisted for several minutes, but it was no good. There was one question which she had to ask before she could sleep.

"They are looking for us, aren't they?"

Her remark was met with silence, and she turned her head slightly, smiling at the sight which met her eyes. Malcolm, obviously accustomed to sleeping in the oddest of places and in grasping any opportunity for rest, had fallen promptly asleep. He looked far younger, Henny thought, with the tight lines around his eyes and mouth relaxed. Then she noticed that his right hand was resting just above his hip, where his holster would be, and she realised ruefully that he was not quite as innocent as he seemed.

She was just drifting off into the arms of sleep herself when she heard him reply.

"Of course they're looking for us."

888

**A/N:** Have changed the height issues and made them both a bit taller. Malcolm would still dwarf me at 5'5"...

Go on – leave a review! (Please!)


	13. Chapter XIII: Freudian Slip

Chapter Thirteen

**A/N:** Chapter 13, and we've now come to the end of the chapters I had written in advance... looks like I'd better get typing!

**Verity Kindle:** Lol, sorry to have put you into such a state of distraction! Hope you enjoy the next chapter...

**height-boffin:** Good point, I have under-estimated the average male height, I blame my short male friends telling me 5 foot 7 was average!! However I've always imagined Malcolm as fairly little (he seems shorter than Trip on-screen anyway) although I've given an extra inch in my edit of chapter 12!

**Alelou:** A bit of fantasy is good for the soul methinks... :)

**grumpyelaine:** I'm glad to hear it! I hope you enjoy this chapter, thanks for reviewing!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Enterprise. I do own the Quartermaster's Crew but they are anyone's for the borrowing!

**Chapter Thirteen **

**Freudian Slip**

When Malcolm awoke to find a pretty young woman sleeping peacefully in his arms, he was momentarily transported back to another time in his life, and he was on the verge of leaning across to kiss her awake before he remembered precisely where he was, who he was holding, and why. He abruptly rolled on his side, away from the warm body beside him.

"Oh, God."

"I don't think He can hear you from down here." A surprisingly clear voice responded to his declamation, and he rolled back over to see Henny looking at him with eyes containing not a hint of sleep.

"You were awake?"

"Yes. Wishing I wasn't."

Malcolm snorted, feeling at the same time a slight flush running along his neck. He hoped she hadn't noticed his slip, and resolved to think of her, if not as an inferior crewman, then at least as a sister.

"At least it's warmer now." He commented, feeling rather like a tourist trying to make inane conversation.

"No more heat-sharing survival tactics required, then."

Malcolm felt himself flush once more at even her half-joking tone (why the bloody hell was his body acting like that of a schoolboy's in such a dangerous situation?), but they were saved the embarrassment of any further pillow-less talk by the clang of the doors. Malcolm clambered to his feet, wishing his tongue didn't taste like so much sandpaper and that his head would stop spinning. He felt achy and winced at the light; probably an infection, on top of everything else. Beside him, Henny's movements were even more uncertain, and he scarcely had time to take in her by-now-soiled bandages and the seepage of blood on the one wrapped around her head before the burly guard who had entered backhanded him across the face before grabbing his hands and cuffing him. Malcolm barely heard Henny's shrieks of protest.

"Guess that saves me the effort of being voluntarily chivalrous, eh?" He muttered, before the guard cuffed him once more. He wisely decided that silence would probably be the best policy.

888

The atmosphere on the bridge was tense, and Archer suspected that another dose of shore leave would be required once Lieutenant Reed and Crewman Mackie were recovered. _Once_. He couldn't deal in ifs. They had lost too many people in the Expanse to declare another two dead here, on their first supposedly peaceful mission for two years.

Hoshi was listening into the airwaves of the planet Dndir, though their attempts to pick up anything about the two hostages were currently being foiled by the fact that Dndir was a popular tourist destination and the majority of communications featured excited holidaymakers relaying news of their exploits. T'Pol was scanning the area in which the _Enterprise_ crewmembers had been staying for human biosigns, but once again this was a lengthy process with no guarantee of success; whoever had kidnapped the pair could already be off the planet. And Trip was pacing, his hand tapping against his leg, whilst Malcolm's SIC sat nervously at the tactical console, looking virtually green at the prospect of taking his commanding officer's role over for good. Archer certainly couldn't blame him.

The Captain was about to open his mouth to ask for a status update from his officers when the strained silence on the bridge was broken by the sound of the turbolift doors opening and a most definitely _un_authorised crewman stomping in. Archer frowned, rising from his seat.

"Crewman -?"

"Tiller, sir." The gruff, middle-aged man replied, and Jonathon recalled that he had been a member of the away team down to Clendavia. He was one of the members of the Quartermaster's Store. However, before he could reprimand the crewman for interrupting the bridge crew in their work, Tiller let out a reprimand of his own. "I would like to say, respectfully, sir, that I am a little concerned at the lack of news we in the Store have been given regarding Henny – Crewman Mackie. Have you found them yet?"

"No," Archer said, and he could tell by T'Pol's glance and raised eyebrows that he was allowing his irritation to show, "we are doing everything we can to retrieve Lieutenant Reed and his companion, but you must understand that our priority is finding them, not informing the rest of the crew of our status. Do I make myself clear, Crewman?"

It seemed that the rough fellow was unaffected by the edge of steel in his captain's voice, for he did not budge from his spot. In fact, he took up what looked worryingly like a semi-permanent position leaning against a safety barrier.

"Indeed, Captain. But at the risk of demotion I shall make _myself_ clear: that "companion" has a name, and I have known her for five years, and she is as dear to me as your Lieutenant Reed is to you. So, if you don't mind, I'm staying right here until there's some news."

Archer was torn between the grudging truth that Tiller's point was an entirely fair one, and the insubordination with which he was faced. But then again, he had never been one to play by the rule book, at least not before the Expanse – Malcolm knew that.

"Sir," Hoshi interrupted his uncomfortable train of thought, "we're getting a call from the surface. Whoever it is say they have... some items we might be interested in."

Archer immediately pushed any unnecessary thoughts to the back of his mind and returned to the centre of the bridge, but did not sit down.

"Put them on," he commanded.

888

Malcolm found himself thrown back into the cell an hour or so later with just as little ceremony as he had been dragged from it. Henny was seated in the middle of the cell, her face even paler than usual, but before he could ask what was wrong she had glanced up, taken in his undoubtedly attractive profile of cuts and bruises, and was by his side in an instant.

"Sir – Malcolm – what did they...?" She shook her head and Malcolm could not contain a snort at the fact that whilst she had quite calmly and patiently borne whatever injuries they had done her the day before, at the sight of _his_ blood she looked shocked and even angry.

"Nothing I can't handle." He managed to mutter, before hastily sitting down. What had the Clendavin officer said to him, moments before he put the large, heavy object he had been holding into hasty contact with his skull? _I want you to feel, human, exactly as our soldiers felt after you brought that cave roof down on them._ The Clendavins were certainly a species that took revenge quite seriously.

He felt a pair of hands play through his hair; Henny was identifying the most urgent injuries.

"It's ok," she murmured, though Malcolm suspected from her somewhat panicked tone that anything was far from 'ok', "they put another medical kit through the slot before they threw you in, I was just preparing..." He felt the hands above his scalp begin to shake and realised that, whilst he was trained for dealing with lots of blood, Henny Mackie most certainly wasn't.

"Henrietta," he said softly, and he felt the hands still, as he had been sure they would. He felt her blow a breath out.

"You know, I _hate _it when people call me that."

"I know."

There was a long pause and though Henny's breathing was now steady, he got the worrying feeling that she was preparing herself to tell him something. Sure enough;

"Uh... I'm going to have to... stitch you up."

He flinched, and hastily turned around to face her, before feeling a rush of wooziness and wishing he hadn't. Her brown eyes were serious but determined. And she was holding a needle and thread in her right hand.

"Oh, God. Where the bloody hell did that little lot come from?"

Henny held up the needle. It was one inch long and sharp.

"The little package they sent us. It's not large enough to do anyone of them any damage should we use it as a weapon, but more than sufficient to... to..."

Malcolm was somewhat grateful that she decided not to finish that sentence. Nevertheless, she was still holding the needle, and he was fairly sure that suturing human skin had never featured in any of her emergency training.

"It's alright," she said, as though hearing his thoughts, "my straight stitching is pretty good."

Malcolm didn't quite trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded and turned back around, allowing her to push his head slightly forward to give her access to the wound. He even found himself thinking wistfully of Phlox's slugs.

He felt a faint pressure on his skull as Henny pulled the two sections of skin together (two sections which had violently parted company, he recalled dimly, through the use of a particularly brutal-looking instrument in the hands of his second or third interrogator), and a stinging as he swabbed the area with disinfectant. And then, the part that he had truly been dreading, the sharp pluck of the needle into his skin. Distraction, that was the key. His eyes frantically raked the nondescript grey walls of the cell; nothing. A small part of his mind murmured that it would have been far more pleasant had Henny been standing in front rather than behind him, but these thoughts were not worth the admittedly pleasant distraction they brought, and so he banished them. It was Henny who, as always, came to his rescue; she started to hum, probably to calm her own nerves, but the slightly off-key rendition of an old, half-forgotten lullaby gave him the focus he needed to help ignore the pain. Five minutes later, he felt the final tug of her closing knot and the humming faded away, to be replaced by a long, shaky breath out.

"Good work, Henny." He said, and she laughed.

"I just pretended I was fixing one of your uniforms."

He felt another soft pressure, but no pain this time, as she began to bandage the wound. Then, as she finished wrapping, he felt her lean over him, and kiss the spot where the cut had been. He flinched, and at once felt her pull away.

"Henny -" He started, turning to face her but then stopped, horrified to see what he had not noticed when he first stumbled into the cell; that a fresh bruise was welling up above her right eye and, most brutal of all, a deliberately straight gash had been cut diagonally across her left cheek. It was not bleeding, but encrusted with dried blood, and though he had seen much of that substance throughout his life Malcolm felt a sudden revulsion at the sight of it there, on the face of a girl who had done nothing to deserve it but save his life. And worse were the eyes, which were slowly filling with tears. Which salty substance appalled him the most?

"I -" She started, then stopped, and shook her head. One hand fluttered helplessly, needle and thread still between forefinger and thumb, and with both of his hands Malcolm gently stilled hers, laying the needle to one side and rubbing her hand for warmth.

"What happened, Henny?" He asked, after a time. Her eyes met his for the briefest moment and then darted away. She took a deep breath and he tightened his grip on her hand.

And then she told him – how one of the Clendavins, one of those whom she thought she had killed in causing the rock-fall, had come into the cell an hour after he had been dragged out of it, and then for a long time had simply stared at her. Once again (as he himself had experienced that very day) the manner with which her injuries had been inflicted had been purely surgical, and the man had no anger in his eyes as he cut her cheek, merely coldness. She told him how the Clendavin had taken the ring from her left hand, and then explained, with far more pain in her voice than had been when she explained her injuries, the story behind the ring and why Crewman Manning had reacted so violently to finding it in his quarters. And how the man had struck her, knocking her out, and when she awoke he was gone.

They sat in silence for a long moment, Henny avoiding his gaze.

"There's something more, isn't there?" He asked softly, on impulse, and realising its truth as her face paled. He swallowed, trying not to think of what cruelties might be inflicted on a young woman about which she would be reluctant to speak. After a brief pause, in which he went through every permutation of self-blame, she shakily cleared her throat. When she spoke it was with surprising strength.

"He said – before he left, he said... that he and his people had now inflicted on us the injuries _I_ did to him and the first of his comrades. There was just one more injury left."

Malcolm almost let out a sigh of relief that it was not something worse, but something in her tone stopped him. He looked at her.

"Malcolm," she said, "the third man died."

888

**A/N:** Uhoh, a cliffie!!!


	14. Chapter XIV: Deadly Words

**A/N:** It is with sincerest apologies that I post this incredibly late update. My only promise is that the cliffy at the end of this chapter (there, you've been warned!) will not be left in the balance too long, for chapter fifteen is already written and waiting in the wings!

My thanks to all who have reviewed and cajoled me along the way – I do hope you enjoy this chapter, for it has certainly been knocking around my brain long enough!

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Deadly Words**

When they were led out of the cell several hours later – she thought it might be morning by then but wasn't sure – Henny reached out her hand and he took it, squeezing it tightly. The guards made no remark which, if anything, made her all the more scared of what their intentions might be. As they were pulled along the corridor – neither bothered to struggle, for the guards were both armed and bulky – they passed a window, set high in the wall, through which a pale watery light was filtering. Morning, then. Henny wondered if it might be the last glimpse of she would ever see of sunlight. From the way Malcolm's grip tightened on hers, she wondered if he was thinking the same.

They finally reached their destination – a wide door which one of the guards opened by pulling an ancient-looking lever – and were abruptly pushed in. The doors closed behind them with a clang, and as they did Henny saw the guards on the other side turn away. There was guilt in their faces.

The room they were in was a large hangar, and it was full of people – and guns. The moment they entered two new guards trained their weapons on the pair of them, and at the far end of the room a Clendavin in dark clothes rose from a chair and approached them.

"I wouldn't move, if I were you." He said lazily, and Henny glanced at the communicator – one of theirs – in his hands. Henny no longer found the abjectly alien appearance of the Clendavin's opposing, but the hard, cold fire in his eyes gave her pause. Even as she gripped all the more tightly at Malcolm's hand – not even daring to look at his face – the Clendavin nodded at a pair of guards by the door. "Separate them."

For a moment Malcolm hung on, and as Henny met his gaze she saw real panic in his eyes, and that more than anything made the cold terror in the pit of her stomach expand, but one of the guards grabbed his wrist and twisted it back, and he let go of her hand with a gasp. As she was dragged away from him Henny felt the loss of his warm hand around hers as dearly as she felt the loss of her mother's heirloom from that same hand. They were led to separate sides of the room, where two dark, uniform pillars stood supporting the roof. The guards then shackled them to the pillars, in such a way that they were both facing slightly inwards – they could still see each other. Henny tried to catch Malcolm's eye but he was firstly too busy struggling with his guard – receiving a backhand to the face for his pains – and then looking around the room, his tactician's mind clearly hard at work on finding a way – any way – out of their seemingly impossibly situation. When Henny saw his eyes widen with horror she barely dared follow his gaze. But there they were; two guards, standing diagonally opposite each of them, just visible in the shadows at the other side of the room. The guns they held were not the slim-lined phase rifles of the other guards, Henny noted dispassionately, but older, heavier-looking – projectile weapons. She wanted to struggle against her bonds, but she could not move. When had Starfleet Basic Training ever prepared their uniform-washing crewmen for _this?_

"So that's your plan, is it?" Malcolm spat out, a new bruise welling up on his cheek. "A painful execution?" As he said the word Henny bit her lip, and felt herself begin to shake. How could he even still have the power of speech? She was too terrified for words.

"And why not?" The Clendavin leader paced from one side of the room to the other, glancing from Malcolm to Henny as he did so. "_She_ murdered one of my people. _You_ helped her. I have the word of my officers who were injured and escaped that you gave her the weapon with which she shot down the cave ceiling. Have you no concept of justice on _your_ planet?"

Now Henny found her voice again.

"It wasn't his fault!" She said, ashamed of how her voice shook, of how it rose in panic at the end of her sentence. "I was the one who did the shooting."

"Henny!" Now it was Malcolm, glaring at her, looking almost furious, and Henny was, ridiculously, reminded of his anger at Crewman Manning's rumour about their spending the night together. Well, they had spent a few nights together now, although perhaps not in quite the situation or setting that Cathy would have imagined. Oh god, Cathy. Why weren't they looking for them?

***

Ryan Tiller could barely believe his ears when the Clendavins – the rebels who had es caped to the planet Andivin, where they had fatefully chosen to take shore leave – finally signed off after laying out there terms to Captain Archer.

"Justice!" He exclaimed, receiving a mildly irritated glance from the Vulcan science officer. Well, let her be irritated. "So that's the choice – we give them 'justice' or they take it themselves?"

"Crewman!" Archer looked furious now, although Tiller was fairly sure that it wasn't entirely directed at him. He turned away. "Hoshi – can you try to get a lock on where they're transmitting from?" Tiller watched as the pretty young Ensign's face fell a little, and the hope that had flamed up when he had heard the Captain's words died down a little.

"They might be transmitting remo -" she stopped when she saw Archer's expression. "Aye sir."

He glanced at T'Pol.

"When she gets a lock, start scanning for human biosigns."

"Aye, sir."

Tiller stood very still in the centre of the bridge, listening to the command crew move into action around him. He felt powerless and, for the first time in his varied and sometimes even terrifying time aboard the _Enterprise_, a little out of his depth. The possibility of total annihilation by the Xindi had not caused him to turn a hair – like every other crew member, he had dealt with the fear of the danger by simply getting on with his job a little more noisily and a little more determinedly. This, however, was different. The aliens down on the planet, the aliens who had little Henny, they wanted to –

"Captain." Ryan managed to say, at last, and the Captain turned, a quizzical but not entirely unsympathetic expression on his face. "Permission to go and – keep the team in the Store – informed."

The tense frown lines on Archer's face eased slightly as he smiled slightly, a look of understanding in his eyes.

"Granted, Crewman. We'll keep you posted."

As he left, Ryan felt that it was that which he feared most. What might the next 'posting' from the bridge bring for their young Henny?

888

The Clendavin smirked as he gazed from Henny to Malcolm and back, and Henny could hear her heart thumping and feel the bile rising. She felt dizzy and all the pains which had been inflicted on her over the past few days came back with a vengeance. But it was not the pain or loss of blood which made her feel sick and faint-headed; it was the thought that she might have to watch Malcolm die for what she had done.

"Please," she said at last, her voice shaking, and the Clendavin turned to her, his head to one side. He nodded for her to continue, and as she did so Henny was preternaturally aware of the two armed guards with their fingers bent upon their triggers. Her heart was beating double-time; the awareness that it may stop all to soon had evidently given it the will to fit in as much last-minute blood pumping as possible. "Please," she said again. "Don't shoot him. It was my fault."

From the corner of her eye Henny became aware of Malcolm opening his mouth as though to protest once more but then, at a nod from the chief Clendavin, having a fist driven into his stomach to silence him. The Clendavin pursed his lips.

"You both seem to have a great deal to say. So, young lady, why shouldn't I kill your partner?"

Henny couldn't answer. Malcolm had straightened up, his mouth set in a grim line of pain, and caught her eye, his gaze intense and full of – what, anger? Pain? Slowly, he shook his head. The Clendavin snorted, and Henny looked back at him with a sharp jab of fear, yet still unable to will her lips to form words.

"Shoot them both."

"No, wait!" They both shouted out at the same time as the two men with rifles stiffened to attention and brought their weapons up to bear.

"Why not?" There was only cold revenge in their captor's face now. "Why shouldn't I shoot you both? Three - two -"

"Because I love her!"

"Because I love him!"

A silence filled the room. The Clendavin's eyes glittered darkly.

"Shoot them anyway."

888

With time rapidly running out, T'Pol finally looked up from her instruments and announced coolly;

"We have tracked down two human biosigns."

Archer nodded, his ramrod-straight posture relaxing only slightly.

"Send the co-ordinates down to Trip." He tapped his comm panel. "Trip?" The chief engineer was down at the transporter pad, ready to beam the two crewmen back to _Enterprise_.

"Just got the co-ordinates, sir." Then Trip swore softly. "There's interference. I can only lock onto one at a time, and that's at a stretch."

"Just do it quickly."

"Aye sir."

The comm went dead as Trip set to work.

888

Malcolm had seen many a bullet or phase pistol beam heading towards his person in his time, but it had never been like this. For one thing, the world around him started to fade to white before he felt the bullet hit. It was only as he heard the blurred whine in his ears that he realised he was being transported. A blink of an eye later and he was back on _Enterprise_, staring at a very pale Trip Tucker.

"Off. Quick." It was then that he realised Henny was not beside him, and he stared wordlessly as Trip fumbled with the controls. The transporter whined again, and Henny appeared. For a moment he looked at her face and thought, with a wonderful surge of relief, that all was well, but then she stumbled forwards and fell into his arms, bright red blood seeping from her drenched front and onto his hands.

888

**A/N:** I make no pretense that I am anything but desperate to hear the thoughts of my lovely readers. So go on, make my Easter holidays!


	15. Chapter XV: Malt Guilt

**A/N:** Wow! Look – an update barely a week after the last one! This is a rare occurrence, I know; so I hope my long-suffering readers enjoy this chapter! :)

To my wonderful reviewers:

**Verity Kindle:** I'm glad I made an impression! I do hope you enjoy the next two chapters of pure, unashamed fluffiness…

**Alelou:** I do like my cliffes! Hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Maraena:** Thanks for reviewing – and thanks for your review of chapter 13, which reminded me to finish this fic…

**SpaceHead3:** Here goes! Hope you enjoy.

**mmmsoap2:** Glad to have a new reader! Hope you enjoy the last few chapters… and maybe the sequel!

**Fireflymaiden:** Hurrah! I am glad you like it.

So – here goes, the penultimate chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I own all of the original characters but anyone is welcome to borrow them… however, I sadly do not own Malcolm or any of the other 'real' _Enterprise_ characters or settings.

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Malt Guilt**

Two weeks after their rescue from the Clendavin freedom fighters, things were beginning to return to normal for Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and Crewman Henny Mackie. Although her injuries had been serious, Doctor Phlox had – after several hours of tense surgery – succeeded in saving Henny's life and she was well on her way to recovery, albeit a recovery which required little-relished daily sessions of 'therapy' with his slugs. Malcolm had, of course, returned to duty the very day after their return, in spite of his plethora of 'scratches' and half-mended broken ribs.

Henny was surprised to find on her return to the Quartermaster's Store that much, in fact, had changed during her brief absence. She was hardly surprised at Billy's "bombshell" as an excited – and emotional – Catherine Manning had termed it when she had come to share gossip at her friend's bedside, but she was a little dismayed at Annan's reaction to it. The icy crewman had promptly moved out of his and Billy's shared quarters, leaving the latter confused and alone. Ryan had also – apparently – almost mutinied on the bridge and had proposed to Miranda yet again in a rapture of relief when hearing that she, Henny, was out of the woods and this time, Miranda had agreed. Although when she had visited Sickbay with a crate of grapes large enough to feed an army the matronly older woman had insisted that she was simply so tired of being asked that she had given in, the faint glow and barely-suppressed smile of happiness hinted otherwise.

Two weeks after their return, Henny was permitted to return to her own quarters and to work the next day, but as she sat in the dark, cramped room, staring at the chronometer and watching it flick from one minute to onto midnight, she realised that sleep would not be forthcoming tonight. She wondered if Malcolm – Lieutenant Reed, she reminded herself sternly, for such he must be now, back onboard the _Enterprise_ – was asleep yet. She suspected not.

He had visited her three times whilst she was in Sickbay, had in fact been sitting beside her bedside when she awoke from surgery, but each time she had been too tired or too drugged on painkillers to address everything that was between them, or to try to absolve the look of guilt in his eyes. Henny knew that he could barely forgive himself for being transported first whilst she, who was saved second, was shot and almost killed. Worse still was Commander Tucker, who had visited and apologised, his normally cheerful face drawn, for not being quicker on the controls. Henny blamed neither of them, but in the week immediately following her return to the ship she had been unable to put this into words persuasive enough.

They had not spoken of the words they had uttered before the Clendavin had ordered his men to shoot them. Henny had never heard Reed – Malcolm – sounds so intensely emotional. Nor had she ever heard in her own voice such tones of desperation and fear. There was danger in those words, and they had both shied from repeating them; they had been almost deadly to them on the planet, and Henny feared that the tenuous cover of normality with which she had endeavoured to shelter herself since returning to such a changed _Enterprise_ would be torn from her completely should she attempt to acknowlege those words which hung between them. She wondered if Malcolm felt the same.

With a sigh, she swung her legs out of bed, wincing as her still-recent stitches panged in protest at the sudden movement. There was only one way to find out, and until she set those four foolish, impulsive words to rest then such grateful oblivion as sleep would always escape her.

888

Try as he might, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed could not sleep. He had tried reading – descending even to the pile of detective novels hidden at the back of one his drawers in the hope that their well-worn plots and comfortingly cliched characters might send him to sleep with rather more effect than _Ulysses_ could – and listening to music (with his mother's taste for the classical "Pachelbel's Canon" had wooed him to sleep many times in his childhood), and had even resorted to endeavouring to count the number of rivets in the ceiling tiles above his bed, but it was no use. He was therefore not terribly annoyed when the doorbell rang at a time when most people should have been in bed, and he paused for a moment, relieved that his insomnia and boredom might receive some relief, wondering who it might be.

Not Trip – the engineer had already cornered him earlier in the day in the mess hall, determined to assess his emotional state, and anyway he would have simply buzzed and walked right in, regardless of the hour – and Malcolm prayed it was not the Captain. No; he had been acting normally enough whilst on duty to convince Archer that all was well, even if it was not, and the man was less likely to broach his privacy uninvited than Trip. Malcolm knew who he rather hoped it would be. He glanced down at his rumpled t-shirt with a grimace and ran a hand through his hair, and was on the verge of checking it in the mirror when he stopped himself with a shake of his head. What was he doing? Being foolish, that was what. Nevertheless, it was with a slight lurch of anticipation that he called "come in".

His anticipation was quite justified when the door swished open and Henny Mackie stepped in, looking pale and nervous.

"I couldn't sleep." She shrugged and smiled wanly, and Malcolm felt the guilt which had first surged through him when he saw her materialise on the transporter pad which blood blossoming across her front resurface at the sight of the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the careful manner in which she held herself which hinted at pain only just suppressed. He was well aware – tragically so, even – after over half a decade of serving the _Enterprise_ and her crew that he could never hope to protect all of them from harm, but it seemed deeply unfair to him that the one crewmember who seemed to always suffer in his presence was so young and undeserving a girl. And she looked young, with her civilian clothes – tight jeans and a girlish t-shirt – and her hair hanging loose around her face.

"Me neither, actually." He smiled, and touched her elbow, steering her to a seat. "Sit down." As she did so he followed suit, perching a little awkwardly on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to say. "How are you feeling? I mean, I saw you in Sickbay, but -"

"I was a bit spaced out, I know." Henny interrupted him with a hint of her old look of humour, but then her expression became more serious. "How am I feeling? I ache everywhere, I'm being treated like a piece of glass by everyone I meet, and every time I shut my eyes I see all sorts of dreadful things. How are _you_ feeling?"

Malcolm pursed his lips. Henny raised an eyebrow.

"If you say 'alright', Malcolm Reed, I swear to God I will finish the Clendavin's job for them."

He couldn't help it. He laughed. How could she make him laugh at a time like this? How could she make him laugh, full stop? He saw, however, that his laugh had made her smile.

"You're not glass, Henny, you're more precious than that. More a diamond."

He stopped, frowning. He hadn't recognised the voice or the man who had just spoke. Or rather he did, but he was a man of many years before – a younger self who had the time and the freedom for wooing. But he was an officer now, for God's sake. And how could he even think of wooing her? She probably hated him for all that had happened to her.

"My mother's ring was diamond." Henny spoke softly, interrupting his self-recriminatory reverie. "It's silly, isn't it, to worry so much about that when…" She shrugged, indicating her stomach – the bandages could just be discerned beneath her top – with a roll of the eyes.

"It's not silly." Malcolm sighed. "Crewman, you have no idea how terribly… sorry I feel that -"

"Lieutenant." Henny interrupted him again, her head cocked to one side. "See, do you like it?"

Malcolm was silent for a long moment.

"Henny." He said at last, feeling the old familiar guilt gnawing in his stomach. Had his familiarity with _her_ got in the way of his doing his job properly? Had his ridiculous declaration been the near-death of her at the hands of that madman? He shook his head. There were only two words he could say, any more. "I'm sorry."

He couldn't bear to look her in the face, but she leant forward and put a hand on his knee. He looked up. There was no anger in her eyes, no blame. There were other emotions – confusion, pain, and others that he did not want to identify for that way lay madness – but none of the damning accusation which he expected and fully felt he deserved.

"There is nothing to be sorry for. But I forgive you, if it will make you sleep."

He held her gaze for a long moment, before standing up abruptly. Her hand fell back into her lap and his knee felt oddly bereft.

"I have an idea." He said, reaching for the small kettle in the corner of his desk and two mugs (the second kept in case of late-night sessions with Commander Tucker requiring the aid of caffeine), flicking the kettle on and reaching for a small pot on a shelf beside his bed. "Malt again, although not whisky. But it might help sleep."

Still not looking at Henny, he heaped three large spoonfuls of sandy-coloured powder into each mug and stirred the hot water into them. A homely smell as old as his childhood slowly filled the room, and he glanced at Henny to see her smiling. He handed her a mug and sat down on the bed once more, sipping gingerly from his own.

"Keep it for special occassions, do you?" Henny asked, her eyes crinkling. He felt his own lips quirk in response.

"Absolutely."

They sat in silence for some minutes, Malcolm glancing at Henny as she stared into the distance and then – as her gaze shifted onto him – diverting his own attention to a speck of dust on the farther wall of his quarters. Eventually, he put his mug down and leant forward.

"I lost my communicator on an alien world once. Pre first-contact." He paused. "The Captain and I had to go back to recover it."

Henny nodded, her eyes wide and a little nervous.

"I remember. You were…" She stopped, and shrugged. Malcolm nodded awkwardly. They were, indeed. Condemned to be hanged by the neck until dead. Hanged, not hung. Grammatical correctness, it seemed, was even more important in matters of life and death.

"I felt… helpless. By my own damned carelessness I had forfeited both my own life and the life of my Captain. But -" he heard his voice thicken slightly and he stopped, taking a swig from his mug to disguise it. "But the fear I felt then was nothing compared to how I felt in that cell, with you." He looked at her, and this time she did not avoid his gaze. "But I don't know if it was myself for whom I was scared."

He watched, feeling as though time had tautened and lengthened, suddenly terribly aware of her every movement, the slight intake of breath, the tightening of her lips, her neck stretching as she glanced up towards the ceiling and then away from his gaze.

"Malcolm…"

He was also aware of his own hand, trembling ever so slightly.

"What I mean is," he added hastily, "is that – there's nothing wrong with being afraid. _I_ was terrified down there. You -" he shrugged. "You were never prepared for anything like that."

When she turned back to look him in the face he saw that tears were glimmering on her lower lashes, but she swallowed and took a deep breath. She gave a shaky laugh.

"I promise to stop feeling scared if you promise to stop feeling guilty."

Once again, he smiled slightly despite himself, and without quite knowing what he was doing he reached out and took her hand, her left hand bereft of its heirloomed ring. She said nothing, but curled her fingers lightly around his. Then she reached out a hand and slowly, hesitantly, placed it on his jaw. He closed his eyes and leaned gently into her palm. They sat like that for a long moment, and he listened to her breathing, remembering how he had listened to her breathing as they slept face to face in the Clendavin cell, how it had comforted him, and how it had later damned him as he listened to the sound of the ventilator onto which Phlox had been forced to put her during and just after her surgery. Yet as he listened, he felt the guilt fall away, a little bit.

"Henny Mackie," he said at last, his voice low, "I haven't been able to sleep a damn wink all week. Will you do me the honour of staying here, tonight? It's… too bloody cold."

Henny laughed, and, as she had done in the cell after binding his wounds, stood up and kissed the top of his head.

"The honour would all be mine, Lieutenant."

Later, as he was drifting off to sleep, the smell of his mother's favourite drink mingling with her fresh scent, she spoke softly into the darkness.

"I meant it, you know."

Malcolm knew, somewhere in his half-conscious state, to what she was referring, and would have agreed that yes, he had meant it too, but the so oft-closed arms of sleep were too strong by far. But when he woke up the next morning to find her gone and a message on his – _her_ – pillow stating "don't tell Cathy!", he felt the last dregs of guilt dissolve in the artificial light of shipboard day.

888

**A/N:** Go on, guys… tell me what you think. Reviews are better than chocolate! Final chapter coming up soon!


	16. Chapter XVI: Wedding Bells

**A/N:** Ok, the very last chapter, and this is one of completely unabashed fluffiness after all the pain, torture and angst I have put our characters through. My sincere thanks to my long-suffering readers and reviewers, I hope you've enjoyed this little diversion as much as I have!

**Sunshine:** Here you go – hope it "brightens up" your day… =)

**Seacook:** You just planted a little plot bunny… watch out for it in future fics (I'm glutton for punishment, and Malcolm and Henny are too cute to give up after one story), but I hope this happy ending is sufficient to satisfy you!

**masqueradewitch:** Glad you're enjoying it! Hope you like the last chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing apart from the Quartermasters' crew… for whom I have many future plans, so watch this space!

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Wedding Bells**

_Three months later._

Malcolm made one last nervous tug at his suit before ringing the doorbell. A crewman walking past – also in dress clothes rather than uniform – gave him a wink, to which he responded with a tight smile. He wasn't entirely sure if he would ever get used to _that_.

"Come in!"

He pressed the door release, and paused on the threshold of Henny's quarters. She was bent over her desk, her room in disarray and a set of hairpins spread across the tabletop as she pulled back lock after lock of hair. Her dress was pale blue with a scooped collar and Malcolm could not help but feel suddenly self-conscious of his own attire, a suit that was a little too loose for him in some places and a little too tight in others as a symptom of having been inherited from a slightly taller cousin during the paucity of his Starfleet training years.

"You look… wonderful." He said, stepping up behind her and placing his hands on her waist. He kissed her ear gently. "Hmm. Careful you don't outshine the bride, Henny."

Hair finished, Henny turned round to face him, and placed her arms around his neck.

"You haven't seen Miranda's dress yet." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Malcolm felt his every sense sharpen to the sensation of her body – for once not constricted in a uniform – against his and pulled away hastily. Her lips quirked. "What's the matter?"

He gave an ironic smile.

"If we carry on like that much more, _we_ won't get to the church on time." He breathed in deeply. She was wearing an unfamiliar perfume, but it suited her – floral, with a slightly sharp, tangy edge. She cast him a devilish look.

"Well that all depends how quick you are, doesn't it, Lieutenant?"

888

On the way to the Mess Hall – the corridor to which had magically been transformed into a tunnel of silk flowers by the diligent work of the crewmen of the ship, all of whom were devoted to the motherly Miranda Heron – they met Catherine and Jill, both of whom were wearing the same dress as Henny but not, Malcolm privately thought, quite as well, and Henny kissed Malcolm on the cheek.

"I'd best go collect the bride." She leaned closer. "You look pretty good in that suit… although you look good out of it, too."

And with that she left him, cheeks blazing, alone in the middle of the corridor. Not for long, however, as he felt a hand clap his shoulder and glanced round to see the grinning face of Trip Tucker.

"All well for the lovebirds, then?"

Malcolm snorted.

"Which ones?"

"Ah… the bride an' groom of course. I don't need ta ask after you two." Trip cast a knowing eye at Malcolm's slightly skewed bow tie, which he hastily straightened. They entered the mess hall – now a wedding hall – in companionable silence, and Malcolm nodded cordially at the white-faced Ryan Tiller standing at the front beside the Captain, smart and beaming in his dress uniform. Tiller, Malcolm had learned, was a kindly man despite his gruff exterior – although such outward reticence was certainly something he himself could understand anyway – and hugely protective of Henny, as he had learned when, some weeks into their relationship, Tiller had approached him in the Mess Hall and informed him in no uncertain terms that, officer or no, black belt in karate or no, he would find himself in a very precarious physical position if he "messed around with our Henny".

Their relationship. It was a strange position to be in. He had never imagined that, over a half a decade into serving on _Enterprise_ he would find the type of partnership he had always thought he had sacrificed when he chose the life of a officer in deep space. Or the life of an officer full-stop. He could still remember, he mused as they took their seats, the intensely awkward conversation with Captain Archer the day after Henny's night-time visit – and night-time stay – in his quarters. They had not spoken about it, but Malcolm knew, as he felt he had known little before, that if ever there was a chance he could not let slip by, it was a chance to sleep peacefully in his bed, with her beside him, every night. He had gone to the Bridge that morning intensely nervous, but before he had found the chance to get a moment alone with the Captain, Archer himself had asked him to come into his ready room. He must have looked like a schoolboy afraid of being told off, for Archer had smiled and looked to the heavens.

"Relax, Malcolm. I just wanted to tell you that we've had a communication from the Clendavin homeworld."

This had seemed like a total non sequitur considering that all his mind had been filled with was Henny, and Malcolm had struggled for a moment before remembering that, on his return to _Enterprise_, Archer had promised sternly that he would be sending a very strongly-worded communique to the Clendavins about their allegedly planet-bound technology and their erstwhile rebels.

"Sir?"

Archer had handed him a PADD, which he held limply.

"They're hugely apologetic." He gave a snort. "Apparently they think that this neighbouring planet have been giving the rebels aid – and, it would seem, lifts to their world – in order to stir up unrest among the Clendavins. Intra-solar politics at its worst." He shrugged. "They seem to think you were just caught in the cross-fire."

Malcolm thought that perhaps the term "cross-fire" was a little weak considering the systematic cruelty that they had experienced at the hands of the Clendavin freedom-fighters, but he had held his tongue. He needed, after all, a Captain in a good mood for what he intended to ask next. He had opened his mouth to change the subject, but his vocal cords lost their courage at the last moment and formed very different words to his original intention.

"And I assume these 'rebels' will be given justice?"

Archer had held his gaze, and sighed. There were many different types of justice, and both of them knew that the clear luxury of the Clendavin ruling class compared to the poverty of the rebels they had met in the caves was not one of them.

"He didn't say." Archer had paused, and Malcolm felt his heart beat a little faster. "Was there anything else, Malcolm?"

For a moment he had considered shaking his head and leaving, but he was possessed by a sudden recklessness, and he took the seat Archer had ushered him to when he first entered but which he had refused, preferring instead to stand. Then he had leaned forward and nodded.

"There was, actually, Captain." He had started. No going back, then.

Archer had cocked his head to one side, looking curious.

"Go on."

"It's about… Crewman Mackie." Malcolm had paused, well aware of how ridiculous he would sound. And, possibly, how very unprofessional. "I would like permission to… court her."

Archer's lips had quirked, but upwards, not downwards, and Malcolm felt a flash of relief and even hope.

"'Court her', Malcolm? Do I look like her father?"

Malcolm pursed his lips.

"No, sir, but I am well aware that such… overtures on my part would be in direct contravention of several Starfleet regulations."

There had been a long silence, then, Malcolm remembered as more people filed into the Mess Hall for the ceremony, although he hardly saw them, lost in his own recollections. Then Archer had leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly and then looking back at Malcolm with a curious smile.

"Malcolm, did you know there is a law – in England, actually – which states that no one in the country is allowed to eat mince pies on Christmas Day? I think Cromwell passed it, but it's still part of the rule book and, strictly speaking, it's still illegal."

Once again, Malcolm had felt himself lost by the sudden change of topic.

"Yes, sir, but I don't really see how -"

"Hang on there, Malcolm." Archer interrupted. "What I'm trying to say is… there are the rules that are written down, and then there are the rules that are followed. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Malcolm certainly did, and his eyes widened. He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

"I – yes, I believe I do, sir. Thankyou, sir."

"Absolutely." Archer had looked up then, his smile wider. "Good luck then, Malcolm."

And Malcolm Reed had exited the Captain's Ready Room, hardly able to believe his luck.

And, he reflected, pulling himself back to the present as the crowd suddenly hushed and a slow, stately piece of music piped through the intercom, his luck hadn't ended there. He had, at the age of thirty-five, made the massive presumption of asking a pretty young crewman of twenty-three on a 'date' – God, he hadn't even used that word for a decade, at least – and she had accepted. Now, three months on, they were the second-most talked-about 'item' on the ship (after Crewmen Tiller and Heron, shortly to become Tiller and Tiller), and Malcolm was just about becoming used to the attention from all areas of the crew – some, as with the crewman outside Henny's quarters, supportive, joking, and others, on the part of younger men aboard who felt jealously that his rank had given him an advantage in the case of young Henny, aggressive. He had rare moments of doubt himself, when he wondered if he was doing the right thing, and occassional crippling nights when his ingrained belief in the regulations led him to guilty internal arguments, but the one thing he was sure of throughout was Henny.

He smiled at her as the entered, now, behind Miranda, resplendent in a shamelessly deep red dress. Malcolm chuckled as he cast an eye at Tiller and saw his pale cheeks suddenly fill with colour – a dark blush almost to match his wife-to-be's dress.

Archer smiled at them both as they reached the front of the hall, and nodded for the crew to sit.

"Crewmen and women of the Starship _Enterprise_, we are gathered here today…"

888

At the reception afterwards both wine (a rich bouquet supplied courtesy of the apologetic Clendavins a few months before and saved for the occassion) and speeches flowed freely, and as she was sitting on the top table between a deliriously happy Miranda and a morosely single Catherine, Henny barely got the chance to speak to Malcolm all night. After watching Miranda and Ryan enjoy their first dance together, and then leading the next with Ryan himself as Miranda danced happily with the Captain, Henny separated herself from the throng and scanned the edges of the hall – where Malcolm would surely be lurking – for her partner. Sure enough, there he was, leaning against a wall and looking a little distracted. His hair – not as stiffly combed as usual – was falling down into his eyes. Henny liked it that way, and she was about to cross the room to tell him so when she noticed a situation into which outside intervention might be required. Billy bumping into Annan at the drinks table and Annan turning in disgust. Billy began to turn away, his expression hurt.

Henny marched across to them, grabbed each young man by a shoulder and spun them to face each other.

"Boys," she said sternly, "this has gone on long enough. Why can't you just make up?"

And it _had_ been going on too long. Annan's furious reaction to the revelation of Billy's homosexuality, which the whole Store had thought would cool after a few weeks, had if anything grown over time, and Miranda had been forced to put Annan onto the night shift to avoid him leaving Billy on the verge of tears every time he snubbed him when they were working together. At her pronouncement, however, Annan simply folded his arms and scowled.

"I shared a room with _him_ for five years, Henny," he spat out at last. "I walked around _naked_!"

"Yes!" The usually quiet Billy suddenly burst out, shaking Henny's grip from his shoulder. She stepped back slightly, suddenly a little unsure of the wisdom of disrupting the proverbial can of worms in the midst of such an event. They were already drawing glances from surrounding crewmembers. Henny's only comfort was that Miranda and Tiller were too deeply ensconsed in one another's arms by that point to notice anything short of a riot occurring at their reception. "And did you ever stop to think what that did to _me_, you inconsiderate bastard!"

There was a silence, and a few shocked gasps from around them, revealing the eavesdroppers who now attempted to look discreetly away, blushing at being caught out by their own reactions. Then, quite to Henny's surprise and definitely to Billy's, if his open-mouthed expression was anything to go by, Annan let out a short bark of laughter. Then he shook his head.

"Billy," he said, looking frustrated, "we were friends. For _five years_. I don't get it!"

"We could be friends again!" He shook his head, looking angry – incredibly so, in fact, for Billy. "Damnit, Annan, I never knew I'd meet anyone more bigoted than my parents about all this!"

Henny however, suddenly realised something. She could scarcely believe it, for if it was the case then men were even more foolish than she had always suspected them to be.

"Annan," she said slowly, "is your real problem not with Billy's… ah… but rather with the fact that he never told you?"

Annan didn't reply, but looked silently at Billy, upon whose face a slow realisation dawned. Henny nodded, and quietly withdrew, leaving them to it.

As she approached Malcolm she saw that he had been watching her, and he smiled and pulled her into a hug.

"Well done, my girl." He said. "I was about to go knock their heads together, but you beat me to it."

Henny laughed, then, noting the slightly rueful expression on his face as he was forced to tilt his head slightly upwards to look at her, leant against the wall with one hand and removed her high heels with the others. She waved them casually.

"They were killing me, anyway." Now it was Malcolm's turn to laugh, and he squeezed her shoe-free hand.

"Thankyou, Henny."

888

"Care for a dance?" Jill Derner looked up from her solitary study of her empty wine-glass, and was surprised to see that the man propositioning her was none other than the Captain – looking, she couldn't help but notice, somewhat dapper in his dress uniform. As the formal officiator of the wedding ceremony, he had worn full Starfleet regalia, although he had given Tiller leave to wear a suit instead of his usual, admittedly grease-stained uniform. Jill glanced around, feeling oddly girlish and nervous. Almost everyone was dancing by this point – even Catherine, looking rapturously joyful to be in the arms of a burly member Lieutenant Reed's security team. Derner was sure that jokes would ensue on Monday regarding the Store team's penchant for armoury officers. Even Annan was dancing – and here Jilly had to make a double-take – with a self-deprecating smile on his face, with Billy.

Jill Derner looked back up at the Captain, who was standing quietly awaiting her answer. She held out her hands, palms up.

"I would be very pleased to indeed, Captain."

888

As he had that morning in the Captain's ready room, Malcolm could feel his heart hammering in his chest, although it skipped a beat every few seconds now, it seemed. Henny looked at him curiously, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"You look deep in thought."

"Hmm." Malcolm swallowed. He had been thinking about it all through the ceremony, and, although he felt ridiculously nervous, he was as sure as he had been three months ago, asking the Captain for permission to 'court' Henny, that he would regret it forever if he let this opportunity pass by. It was a little soon, perhaps, to be true, but –

"Malcolm?" She looked concerned now, a crease appearing between her eyes. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes." He said, at last, aware that his voice was lower and – he admitted it to himself – shakier than usual. Blinking a few times, he reached out and took her hand, her right hand, cradling it in his own. He could still see the line of slightly paler skin around her fourth finger where her mother's ring had once sat, and he remembered briefly how he had replaced it there, the night after their first – the first of many, as it had turned out – conversation in his quarters and after Crewman Manning had thrown it at him in misplaced ire. Although he had surprised himself by the gesture, it had felt perfectly right and natural to do so. Now he thought he knew why. "Henny," he said slowly, still keeping ahold of her hand but looking up into her face. Her lips were slightly parted and her head was cocked to one side, "Henny."

He looked back down at her hands, and closed his eyes briefly. If he had fought Klingons, he must surely have courage for this. But this required a different kind of courage.

"Henny," he said at last, softly, the sounds of dancing and laughter around them seemingly insignificant, "I know that I can never – give you back your mother's ring, but, if you like…" He trailed off, then took one last deep breath. "Henny, will you do me the honour of letting me replace that ring with another one?"

_Finis._

**A/N:** Go on… give one last review! And what are people's views on… a sequel?


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